


you are my sweetest downfall

by Fionakevin073



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Love/Hate, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 34,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11179536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionakevin073/pseuds/Fionakevin073
Summary: AU: In which Anne enacts her sweetest revenge. (Two shot)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N This is my first Tudor ever story ever. Wow. I’ve been planning on writing one for years, but I could never find the right story, the right idea that would do Anne Boleyn justice. To me, she is the most fascinating Queen I have ever learned about, and every time I read a biography about her or watch the show I always wish that her fate was different, and for a split second I actually convince myself that she survived. But she didn’t and this is a one-shot about how she did. So this is a two-shot btw, the second part should be posted soon enough. 
> 
> Keep in mind, this story is riddled with historical inaccuracies and is completely AU, so please just accept them as a part of this story. Thank you! Feel free to review! 
> 
> Until next time,  
> Fiona Kevin073
> 
> Summary: In which Anne enacts her sweetest revenge.

 

**Part 1: Settling to Ashes**

 

_i._

 

Anne watches her brother die. 

 

Anne watches Mark die. 

 

Anne watches Norris die. 

 

Anne watches Francis die. 

 

Anne watches William die. 

 

She winces every time the axe swings down, unable to contain her sobs. _George,_ her heart whispered, _Oh god I am so sorry._ Her heartbreak no longer allowed her to feel any anger towards those who had had her dear _innocent_ brother condemned and so she watched helplessly as the rest of her supposed lovers were sentenced to die. 

 

_This is all my fault,_ she thinks, _if only I had stayed in France, if only I had—_

 

“No,” she snaps out loud, wringing her hands together before angrily swiping at her tears. _I am not to blame for this. It is Cromwell. It is my father and Norfolk and Brandon— My only crime is that I could not bare a son._

 

Still, that knowledge does not completely stop her tears. 

 

_Elizabeth,_ her mind whispers, _my heart. My life._

 

Anne would have wished for death eagerly, if it had not been for her daughter. She cups her stomach, remembering how a few months ago it had been round and had begun to swell. She blames that pale wench Jane Seymour. 

 

But Anne knows that there is only one person who was truly to blame and the hatred that swells in her breast is overwhelming. 

 

And that is why, when she feels herself sway and her vision begins to dim, she is not surprised. 

 

_ii._

 

“It would seem that her majesty is with child.” 

 

Anne stares up at the doctor from where she is propped up against the pillows, feeling frail and weak. 

 

There is a beat. 

 

A moment. 

 

“What?” she whispers. 

 

The man flinches under her gaze, looking extremely uncomfortable. 

 

“It would seem that you are with child, madam,” he says, scratching the side of his chin, “I would presume that you are a month along, give or take.” _No no no no no no_ her mind yells and Anne has to bite her lip hard to stop herself from bellowing. 

 

“Though in your. . . _delicate_ state I would suggest taking extreme care. If I may speak freely madam, it is a miracle you have not miscarried.” Anne knew he was right on that account, it _was_   a miracle she had not lost the child growing in her womb. _I lost my child because I caught my husband with another woman and I have not lost this one because…_

 

Anne wondered what was wrong with herself. 

 

“Thank you, Doctor,” she says kindly, looking around the room and suddenly feeling cold. He bows his head politely and there is a moment of silence before he speaks, and what he says rocks her to her core. What he says means her ensured survival, if only for a few more months. 

 

“I must inform his majesty.” 

 

_iii._

 

It is a week before Anne receives any visitors. 

 

She is sitting with her ladies by the newly lit fire, as she had been tremendously cold for the past few days, awaiting her fate and wondering what will be done with her if she was allowed to live, at least long enough for her to give birth to her child. It was the King’s child, that she knew, but she was also aware of the possibility that many would claim that her child was fathered by one of her many accused lovers. She resisted the urge to snort at the thought, suddenly unafraid of the implications. She no longer cared. 

 

She is no longer a Queen. She is a disgraced woman with no brother and no family to protect her. She is unloved. The only things she has is this child and her daughter and she would rather be damned before allowing them to be left alone in the world. 

 

The door bursts open, revealing a serious looking Cromwell as he walks into the room unannounced. 

She rises immediately, staring at him with an emotionless expression. “Master Cromwell,” she greets lightly, as though he were not the reason she was imprisoned, “It is a pleasure to see you.” 

 

He grunts softly at her words and doesn’t bother to return the sentiment. 

 

“In light of your condition,” he begins, not looking her in the eye, “The King has decided to allow you to live.” Her ladies gasp with relief, but Anne is cold, unmoved, waiting. “You are allowed to retain your title as Marquess of Pembroke and are hereby banished from Court, with pain of death if you return. Your marriage to the King has been annulled and your daughter has been declared a bastard and shall be expected to live with you at Pembroke. She is to be known as the Lady Elizabeth. You are expected to leave London immediately and not return until or if the King wishes it.” _Like that will ever happen._

 

It is only then that Cromwell looks at her and Anne can feel her insides bristle at the small glint of triumph that lingers in his eyes. Instead of allowing herself to voice her anger and grief, she surprises the both of them by smiling. 

 

“If you would be so kind as to thank his majesty for his kindness I would be most grateful,” she tells Cromwell, “My belongings—“ 

 

“Have already been packed,” Cromwell interrupted, “The carriage is waiting for you, _Marquess,_ all that is needed of you is to get in it and return to your estates. You are expected to write reports to court about the well-being of the babes in your womb and the Lady Elizabeth.” _Go to hell._

 

“Of course,” Anne says, curtsying and turns to her ladies which prompts them to spring into action. Anne turns to look at Cromwell, at her former ally, at her newfound enemy and all she feels is emptiness. “Farewell, Master Cromwell.” 

 

She may no longer be Queen but Cromwell still obeys without a word. 

 

_iv._

 

Anne can hear the crowd before she sees it. 

 

She can’t hear what they are saying but it makes her heart thud. She looks up at the grey sky and a smile adorns her lips when she feels a speck of water on her forehead. Anne walks forward, her head held high, her smile wide. The crowd roars at the sight of her and Anne walks forward, a purse of money in her hand and begins to hand out few coins to the poor. 

 

“Thank you your majesty!” 

 

“God Bless you Madam!” 

 

“Whore!” 

 

“May the Lord have mercy on your soul!” 

 

It pleased Anne that there were more wishes for her good health than those wishing her ill. She smiled at everyone nevertheless, looking gracious and thankful. She paused when water began to fall down on her head harder and more rapidly. Anne laughed loudly at the darkening clouds, throwing her head back. The crowd grew silent at the sight of her laughing like a child, as happy as a mare, in their bewilderment. 

 

“Thank you all,” she called out, beaming at the crowd. 

 

Before long, she was safely settled in her carriage and off to Pembroke, where Elizabeth would be waiting. And for just a moment, she feels hurt that Henry did not come by to see her off. To ask of the child in her womb, to question her of her innocence. _Fool,_ she cursed herself, reminding herself of how the King had refused to believe her when she had pleaded him for another chance. Of how he had walked away without a second thought. Of how he was responsible for the death of her son. 

 

Of how he had murdered her brother and other innocents. 

 

Of how he no longer loved her as she loved him. 

 

Anger burned within her but it was almost overshadowed by the intense fear that had suddenly overcome her. 

 

Anne had almost died. 

 

She had almost met the chopping block. 

 

The image was sudden and blinding before her eyes— George’s panicked expression before he lay his head on the chopping block— Mark’s battered and bruised body. She winces at the sight and tries to banish it from her mind. 

 

(The image is burned onto the back of her eyes for years to come) 

 

_v._

 

“Mama!” Elizabeth shrieked, running towards her as fast as her little legs could take her. 

 

“Elizabeth!” Anne exclaimed, running forward to meet her daughter halfway, not caring about decorum or an appearance of properness or gracefulness. This was her daughter. The daughter whom she thought she would never see again. 

 

Anne sweeps the little girl up into her arms, clutching onto her tightly, though she is careful not to hurt her. “My own heart,” she whispers, burying her face in her child’s reddish-gold hair. They had just arrived at Pembroke for a mere moment before she had exited the carriage, eager to see her daughter. 

 

“My Mama,” Elizabeth murmurs into her neck. The relief Anne feels is so overwhelming she can no longer speak. Instead, she can feel her eyes grow wet as the love she feels for her daughter fills her to the brim and takes a hold of her heart. “I love you Elizabeth,” she told her, pulling back so that she could look her daughter in the eye. 

 

“I love you too Mama,” her daughter replied happily, a frown taking over her face when she noted the redness in her eyes. Anne hoists Elizabeth onto her waist and observes her new home with a carefully crafted expression, not wanting to upset Elizabeth. The castle was a series of drum towers, each with different heights. It was not particularly grand, as a matter of fact, it was rather bare-looking, but there was a certain quality to it that made Anne’s lips quirk upwards. Potential. It had potential to become beautiful. She surveys the environment around her and takes notice of the grand trees and bushes that make the gardens lush and beautiful. Water surrounds the castle on the one side from the river and the water glistens under the suns rays. 

 

“Is our home not beautiful darling?” she asks Elizabeth, pressing a kiss to her rosy cheek. “Yes Mama!” Elizabeth giggles, but Anne underestimates her daughters skills of observation and so when Elizabeth says, “Mama, why is Papa not with you? Why are you living apart from Papa? Is he still angry?” Anne can feel her body tighten and her heart seize with tiredness at her daughter’s words. “Mama and Papa have—have—“ Anne bites her lower lip in frustration before plastering a fake smile on her lips and saying, “We will talk about it later.” Her daughter does not seem happy with her response but she nods and buries her face in Anne’s neck. 

 

Anne looks ahead and suddenly takes notice of the solemn looking household waiting for her in the courtyard. She can recognise some of the servants from Hatfield and nods at Lady Bryan, Elizabeth’s governess. There are a few other people that she fails to recognise and so with a heavy heart she gently puts Elizabeth back on the ground, though she stills holds onto her hand as she moves forward to greet them. 

 

“Marquess,” a man with long grey hair and a tired, worn face utters, though his eyes—grey and stormy—are full of kindness, “My name is Master Lewis, I am to serve as your Steward.” Anne observes him with a keen eye before offering him a kind smile. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master Lewis.” 

 

Her new household is small—far smaller than that of when she had been Queen. It is with a bitter heart and a flare of anger that she thinks of that pale wench being Queen instead of her, but she pushes that thought aside. There are only a mere 40 members of her household, excluding her ladies, but Anne supposes that that is enough to live comfortably and happily. 

 

If Anne were to be completely honest with herself, that is all she desires. She has spent the past 10 years of her life fighting and now all she wants to do is rest and live with her daughter in peace. 

 

( _And with your other child_ , her heart whispers)

 

_vi._

 

“No!” Elizabeth snaps, her little hands tightening into fists, “You are the Queen! Papa is silly to be rid of you!” 

 

Anne sighs at her daughter and makes eye contact with her through the mirror. They are in Anne’s chambers— her rooms are surprisingly beautiful and lavish, unlike certain other areas of the castle that she had been shown (Anne has already begun to make plans for renovations)— and the sun has set, revealing a moonlight sky. Anne had been brushing Elizabeth’s glossy hair when she had begun to explain, gently, what had happened. 

 

Of course, she had omitted some aspects of the story, the darker and scarier parts that Anne herself still had trouble remembering but Anne was still desperate to get her point across. “Elizabeth,” Anne says sternly, turning her daughter around so that they were face to face, “You are never to speak of your father that way ever again understand? There are many reasons as to why I am not longer Queen and within those reasons there are some you will not understand until you are much older. All I can tell you is your father loves you but he—he no longer loves me.” 

 

“Then he is stupid.” 

 

It takes a great deal of effort for Anne not to smile. 

 

“There are two things that I wish for you to know Elizabeth,” Anne’s voice is kinder now, gentle and almost soothing. “First, is that I love you no matter what. I bid you to know that you are loved and never forget it— and that you are loved most by me. Second, is that I am carrying your little brother or sister and that the babe inside my womb will be here in a few months.” 

 

Elizabeth smiles fully and it’s so full of joy and happiness that it make’s Anne’s heart ache tenderly in her chest. 

 

“I am to be a sister?” she asks throwing her little arms around Anne’s shoulders. “Yes, my darling,” Anne sighs, “You are to be a sister.” _I just don’t know whether or not you’ll have a mother afterwards._ “Will Papa come and visit us when the baby comes?” 

 

Anne sighs, her heart heavy in her chest as she twirls a strand of Elizabeth’s curls around her finger. “I don’t know, darling,” she admits, “I don’t know.” 

 

“Why does Papa no longer love you?” Elizabeth questions. 

 

“There was a… mixup darling,” Anne tries softly, trying her best not to let her eyes tear up, “A very terrible mixup that made Papa  very angry with me. People said I did some very bad things, people that Papa is very close to and that made your Papa very upset.”

 

“You would never do a bad thing,” Elizabeth insists. 

 

Anne chuckles at her words and smiles, though this time it is with a hint of bitterness and sorrow. “Not this bad thing, Elizabeth.” 

 

She hugs her close so that she can hide her tear-filled eyes. 

 

_vii._

 

Her life is quiet, peaceful, which is a welcome relief to the past few months of hell that she lived in. 

 

Lady Bryan leaves Pembroke after a fortnight, explaining with a forced smile that she had been summoned to Hatfield once more. Elizabeth cries when she goes but she soon forgets her tears when she meets the new governess that Anne selected for her, Lady Kat Ashley. 

 

Renovations soon begin after Anne arrives at Pembroke— much to her surprise, Henry had been rather generous with her income and had let it be at 100,000 pounds per year, as when she had first been appointed Marquess of Pembroke— and they last for about a month. Within that month, the gardens have blossomed with the new flowers she had ordered to be planted and Anne smiles everyday when she walks through it, proud of its beauty. 

 

However, even though her life has grown quiet, the calm before the storm, if you will, court life has moved on without her. It stung her deeply when she discovered that Henry had married Jane Seymour a little over a fortnight after she had arrived at Pembroke. The thought of that blonde pale wench _winning_ made her throw a vase against the wall in her anger, giving her ladies a most terrible fright. 

 

Her stomach grows steadily— so steadily and greatly that Anne is concerned. By the time she had been pregnant with Elizabeth for two months, she had only just begun to show. Now, her stomach was already obviously round. However, despite her concerns, Elizabeth was delighted. 

 

The sun was high in the sky, much to Anne’s delight, as her and Elizabeth were having a picnic in the gardens near the river. Her ladies are also enjoying themselves, though a distance away from her and her daughter, and there are a few servants that are standing nearby, ready to serve their mistress if need be. 

 

Anne giggles with delight as she watches Elizabeth play with her dog. The skirts of her dress are stained with mud as she runs along the grass, her laughter music to Anne’s ears.  The book in her hands is long forgotten as she sets it aside on the blanket beneath her, preferring to look at her daughter instead. “Elizabeth!” Anne calls out, gesturing to the food that had just been brought. Elizabeth nods and hurries over to her, her smile wide as Anne opens her arms out for a hug. “Oh my lovely girl,” Anne coos, sitting Elizabeth on her lap, though she is careful not to rest her on her protruding stomach. Almost as if she read her mind, Elizabeth shifts so that she is sitting beside Anne and turns to face her, eyeing her stomach with grave suspicion. 

 

“Is my brother or sister in there?” she asks bluntly. 

 

Anne laughs before nodding, a smile plastered on her face as she looks down. The dress she had chosen to wear—a lovely pink gown with embroidered roses— did nothing to hide her current condition. “Yes they are,” Anne tells her gently, stroking her cheek. “Can they hear me?” Elizabeth questions. 

 

“No, my darling, they can not. They are still very, very small.” 

 

Anne watches with amusement as Elizabeth knocks her tiny fist against Anne’s stomach, her brow furrowed with confusion. “Can they feel that?” 

 

Anne has to bite down on her lip to stop her giggles. 

 

“No, but I can,” she retorts softly, watching as Elizabeth’s eyes grow wide. 

 

Anne begins to tickle her daughter with delight and in that moment she forgets. 

 

It is easy for her to forget that she might still die after this baby was born. That she might still be snatched away from Elizabeth and killed. Anne had tasked Master Lewis with writing the letters to court to report on her wellbeing, though she read them before they were sent. They were never sent any replies, but Anne was eager not to incur the King’s wrath for fear of the consequences. The fire in her had died out, it would seem, along with her brother. 

 

_viii._

 

By the time Anne is five months pregnant, she can no longer walk due to the sheer size and heaviness of her stomach. 

 

She spends days on end, confined to her bed and is not surprised when one day she wakes to find of the courts physicians in her chambers, inspecting her stomach from afar. Midwives had been sent from court—due to the Queen not being with child (a fact that made Anne’s lips curl with satisfaction)— and were always forcing food down her throat. Even though she was bedridden, Anne had still begun to busy herself with decorating the nursery with Elizabeth’s help. 

 

Elizabeth spent an hour at the very least in her chambers every day and was there when Anne was told the news. 

 

“My lady Marquess,” the doctor began, folding his hands together, “It would appear that there are multiple babes in your womb.” 

 

Anne blinked through her surprised and worry, and cupped her stomach with her hands, not knowing what to say. 

 

Elizabeth however, a month short of her third birthday, had plenty to say. 

 

“Does that mean that I am to have multiple siblings?” she asks, her eyes wide with excitement. 

 

It manages to snap Anne out of her shock as she smiles at her tiredly. “Yes, my love,” she said, rubbing her stomach, “You may have two brothers or two sisters.” 

 

“Or perhaps one of each,” Elizabeth suggested excitedly, causing Anne to laugh loudly and the doctor to crack a wry smile, with her ladies murmuring in the background. “Don’t get greedy,” Anne advised softly, shaking her head even though she was smiling widely. 

 

_ix._

 

Elizabeth’s birthday had two months passed when Charles Brandon arrives at Pembroke. 

 

It shocks Anne into several moments of silence after she had been told and with a gentle carefulness due to her condition, her ladies work on making her look presentable. She is wearing her dark locks in a long, delicate braid and a white shift adorned by a blue robe that gives her skin a healthy glow. Elizabeth leads Charles in, not yet noticing the tension. 

 

“Your grace,” Anne greets from where she had been propped up against the headboard by her ladies. She hides her hands under her blankets so she can hide how they had curled into tight fists. Her nails dug into her palms so greatly she was drawing blood. Elizabeth’s smile had died now, as she took notice of her mothers expression. Anne was too busy staring into the Duke’s eyes to comfort her. 

 

“Ladies,” she commanded, never breaking eye contact with Brandon, “Take the Lady Elizabeth to her lessons.” 

 

They obey her without a word and soon enough it is only them two in the room. 

 

“I see the Doctor did not lie of your condition,” is all he says, his expression carefully masked. Anne lays a protective hand upon her stomach, her gut tightening into knots. “Why has he sent you here?” Anne asks, not needing to clarify who _he_ was. Anne had tried her utmost best not to think of the King as best she could as whenever she heard him mentioned or thought of him her heart ached painfully. 

 

“Since your grace is near your expected due date, the King has sent me to expect the babes to judge as to whether or not they are his—“ 

 

Anne snorted at this, her jaw locking with anger. 

 

“They _are_ his, your grace,” she ground out angrily. 

 

His smile was sharp and biting. 

 

“The King has good reason to doubt your words, madam. In case you have forgotten that you have been found guilty of adultery in the eyes of the law.” 

 

“If I am no longer married to the King— and if our marriage had never been valid as judged by Thomas Cranmer— than how could I have possibly committed adultery?” she retorts angrily, her cheeks beginning to flush. They glare at each other, their contempt for the other person great and unwavering. 

 

Anne would have been happy to continue glaring at him, if it had not been for the sudden pain in her stomach. 

 

“Ah,” she gasped, clutching at it, her eyes wide with pain. 

 

“Your grace?” Brandon asked, his eyes suddenly growing wide. 

 

The pain was familiar and blinding and Anne knew then that it was time. Fear seized her heart as she lay there but she still managed to say her words clearly. “Get the doctor and the midwives— Now!” He does not hesitate before bolting from the room, his voice bellowing. 

 

Soon enough, the midwives and doctor are hustled into her chambers, and she can hear Elizabeth screaming for her from wherever she is. “Nan,” she breathes, panting heavily, “Go—go tell her I’m alright.” Nan heads her command without a word and it’s as another pain blinds her that Anne feels as though something is missing. That something is terribly wrong. 

 

_Mary,_ she thinks, _my own sister._

 

In that moment Anne desires her presence so dearly her eyes begin to water.

 

The next few hours past by slowly and painfully Anne feels as though it has been centuries. _Oh god,_ she thought dreadfully, letting out a moan, _oh dear God have mercy._

 

“It is almost time to push, my lady,” one of the midwives said from in-between her legs. Anne nodded tiredly as Madge dabbed at her sweaty forehead with a cloth. She cast her a thankful smile that quickly turned into a grimace of pain as she let out a shout. _Why must God punish us with such pain?_ she thought dreadfully, another cry escaping her lips. “Now! My lady! Push!” 

 

Anne pushes with all her might, gritting her teeth together so that she muffles her yell, for Elizabeth’s sake. No doubt the poor girl could hear her. _I must survive,_ she thinks determinedly, as she pushes again and again, _if not for my sake, for Elizabeth’s. Always for her._ The thought of leaving her daughter to the mercy of people like Brandon and the Seymour’s sets her blood on fire and so Anne pushes and pushes until the midwife yells, “I can see the head, my lady! One more!” 

 

And with a poorly concealed shout, Anne pushes. She slumps down against the bed as her child leaves her body and she waits for an agonising moment for it to cry. “What’s happened?” she asks frantically, her eyes growing wide, “What is it? Why aren’t they crying?” The baby lets out a shrill scream at her words and Anne’s heart almost collapses with relief. “A boy,” one of the midwives says, as she wraps the babe in a blanket, cradling it in her arms. “A healthy baby boy.” 

 

Anne lets out a tired laugh, tears piercing her eyes. Her relief is short-lived however, when another pain blinds her. “I’m so tired,” she says miserably, a sob escaping her lips. Nan holds onto her hand in comfort and gives her an encouraging smile. “Just a little longer, only a little longer.” Anne nods tiredly, swiping at her eyes with her fists. “Just a little longer,” she repeats out loud, sitting back up against the pillows with help from her ladies. She pushes again and again, her strength slipping from her with every push though she tries to think of Elizabeth and her newborn son, and that gives her enough strength to push on. “One more!” Anne can feel tears slip from her eyes as she pushes and this time, the babe starts crying mere seconds after it has left her womb. 

 

“Another son!” Nan tells her, her eyes wide. Anne laughs with delight, though a sad smile graces her lips. “Bring them here,” she says, opening her arms. She nearly misses the midwives shoot each other a knowing look and before she can ask what it means, another pain takes over her. “Another child?” she exclaims tiredly, panting loudly. “Another one,” the chief midwife, Eleanor, confirms from in-between her legs, squeezing her knee encouragingly. “Okay,” Anne says, nodding her head in preparation, “Okay.” Her voice is a mere whisper now and a sob escapes her lips as she pushes. This babe comes out quicker than the last and before she can even ask whether or not the babe is healthy, Eleanor is shouting at her to push _again—_ because yet another babe is resting in her womb, eager to come out into the world. 

 

Anne screams at the top of her lungs when the final babe exits her and comes into the world and she slumps down against the pillows, her skin eerily pale and dripping with sweat. “No more?” she questions tiredly, as though she were a child. “No more,” Eleanor confirms, smiling at her. Anne lets out a sob of relief, her eyes drooping before they snap open when she hears her child’s shrieks. “Are they—“ 

 

“All of your sons are healthy, Lady Marquess,” Eleanor tells her. 

 

“Four?” Anne asks in disbelief, her eyes seeking the small bundles in the four separate midwives arms. “Nan,” she commands, her voice soft, “I want you to cut four different coloured ties and bring them to me.” Nan does so without a word and she beckons the midwives to come closer, eager to see and hold her sons. “Bring them to me,” she commands, opening her arms. “My lady, you need rest—“ 

 

“I am the former Queen of England and the current Duchess of Pembroke Eleanor, do not presume to tell me what I do or do not need. I need to hold my sons and I am asking you to bring them to me.” They showed no hesitation in going so and soon enough, pillows had been propped up in her arms—her admittedly, tired, aching arms— so that she could hold them. “Your eldest son.” He was placed in the pillow closest to her and Anne marvelled at the smallness of his features, her heart tightening with love as she cooed at him. “My lovely,” she murmured, before her second son was placed in her arms, followed by the third and then, “Your youngest,” the final midwife said. Anne frowned with motherly concern as she stared at him, her heart seized with worry, “Is he alright? He is so much smaller than the others.” 

 

“He is perfectly alright your ma—“ Eleanor flushed before continuing, “My lady Marquess. With a little bit of nourishment he should grow as big as his siblings.” Nan had returned with the four ties in hand and Anne instructed her gently, so as not to wake the sleeping babes, to tie the red to the eldest, the blue to the second eldest, the white to her third son, and the green to her youngest. Tears pierced her eyes as she stared at them and one trickled down her cheek, glistening. 

 

“Have you named them?” Eleanor asked. Anne did not look up to see where she was talking from, unwilling to lift her sight away from her boys. “Yes,” Anne said, though she had not made any attempt to settle on names before, despite Elizabeth’s pressing. “George,” she says, looking at the eldest. “Mark,” she continues, going from oldest to youngest, “Francis and William.” There is a moment of silence in the room, the tension thickening before— “Those are wonderful names, my lady.” 

 

_Names that honour the dead._

 

It is mere moments after her sons are taken away from her that Anne falls into a deep slumber. 

 

_x._

 

When Anne wakes, it is to the sight of Elizabeth’s curls. 

 

She blinks rapidly at the sight of her, suddenly unsure of whether or not she had dreamed her birth. Her sheets are clean and her clothes have been changed but her stomach is no longer as large and she is still tremendously sore. “Elizabeth,” Anne says gently, calling her daughter from where was on her knees by her bedside. Her daughter jumps with excitement at the sight of her, though her eyes are red— _she’s been crying,_ Anne realises, her eyes widening. “What is it my love?” she questions, her heart beating frantically— _has an executioner been brought already? Has Suffolk already taken away my sons? Has he threatened Elizabeth?_

 

“I thought that you were dying!” her daughter sobs, moving forward to hug her tightly. Anne resists the urge to wince, her body still sore from her labour. “Lady Elizabeth,” Eleanor scolds, prompting Elizabeth to move away from her at once. “I am alright my love,” Anne tells her sweetly, leaning forward to press a kiss on the crown of her head. “Where are my sons?” she questions, eager to see them, to hold them. 

 

Elizabeth jumps at her words, her frown quickly forgotten as she beams at her, excited to meet her new siblings. “I am a sister of so many!” she says brightly, her voice bordering on a squeal. “Indeed you are, my darling.” Anne turns to look at Eleanor, taking notice of how her ladies rise and come next to her bed, on the other of side of where Elizabeth is, ready to attend to her. “How long was I sleeping?” 

 

“A day, your grace,” Eleanor admits and she shoots Anne’s ladies a look that prompts them to go and—Anne hopes— retrieve her sons. “The priest that you sent for has arrived, Lady Marquess.” Anne nods at her words and shoots Elizabeth a smile, though her stomach has begun to tighten into knots. “I wish to write to my sister, Eleanor,” she begins, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear, “May you bring me a piece of parchment and some ink?” She does so quickly and though it hurts Anne to move her arms much, she writes her sister a letter under Elizabeth’s curious eye. 

 

_Dear Mary,_

 

_I do not know where to begin. First, I must apologise for my behaviour towards you and your husband and your unborn child. I was most cruel and unloving to you, my beloved sister. I plead for your forgiveness, which I know now I should have done long ago. Please forgive me, sister, I miss you dearly. If you and your husband would be willing, I would like for you to be godparents to one of newborn sons. Please bring your children with you, if you choose to accept my invitation. Elizabeth would gladly look forward to the company, and I am eager to meet my nieces and nephews. You are the only sibling I have left._

 

_With all my love and good will,_

_Your devoted sister Anne, Marquess of Pembroke_

 

She signs and seals the letter and hands it over to Eleanor, trusting her to send it. The door to her chambers opens and her ladies come in, each holding one of her sons. “Bring them here,” she commands, opening her arms. Elizabeth jumps excitedly and casts her a smile, “May I hold one of them?” Anne nods before casting her a gentle look of warning, “They are very small, you need to be careful to support his head.” 

 

Elizabeth nods seriously, looking as though she were about to walk to her grave. Anne smiles at Nan and Madge as they place George, Mark and William into her arms before placing Francis into Elizabeth’s small, waiting arms. “That is your third brother, Francis,” Anne tells her, watching tenderly as Elizabeth’s eyes widen with adoration. “George is the eldest, with the red tie. Mark is the second eldest, with the blue, Francis with the white, and the youngest William, with the green.” 

 

“To tell them apart,” Elizabeth breathes, thoroughly focused on examining her newborn brother. 

 

“Indeed,” Anne confirms, casting her eyes on the little babes she is balancing in her arms. 

 

“A wet-nurse has been sent for,” Eleanor tells her, wiping her hands on a cloth. 

 

Anne doesn’t look up from her sons when she speaks. 

 

“I will feed them,” Anne declares. 

 

She remembers how Henry had chastised her for wanting to feed Elizabeth from her own breast, and now—especially now, since she was no longer a Queen— she had no desire to repeat that experience. “Your grace,” Eleanor begins gently, as though she were speaking to a child, “It may be difficult and sensitive for you to feed all _four_ of them. You may not-“ 

 

“Fine,” Anne decides, eager to be left alone to look at her sons, “The wet-nurse may _help._ ” Anne sits in silence as Eleanor begins to tell her of how she is not allowed to leave her bed for another week or so and even then she must not over-exert herself. Anne nearly groans out loud at the thought of having to stay in bed any longer— she had spent months confined to her bed, bloated and sore. All she desired to do was _walk,_ even if it was merely about the room. 

 

The week could not go by slow enough. 

 

_xi._

 

Anne is sitting in her son’s nursery, an open letter in one hand as she sits in front of their cribs, reading it absentmindedly whilst she also stroked George’s stomach, though her hand moved to do so for all her sons. Her smile grew as she finished reading Mary’s letter, pleased that she had agreed to come and was already on her way with her children. She folded the letter and tossed it onto the nearby table, now focusing all of her attention on her sleeping sons. 

 

“Hello,” she whispered, watching their small chests rise and fall. George, Mark and Francis had inherited the symbolic tudor curls that descended from Elizabeth of York. Small tuffs of reddish gold hair so similar to their sisters’ graced their small heads. William was the only one who had inherited her dark locks and he stood out amongst his siblings like a dandelion in a field of roses. “My dear heart,” she murmurs, leaning over the cradle to kiss his smooth leg. Her heart swelled as she took them all in, fingering her pear Boleyn necklace as she did so. 

 

She did not notice that the door to the nursery had opened until she felt someone’s eyes pouring into the back of her skull. Anne turns to look over her shoulder, stiffening as she notices Charles Brandon standing near the doorway, clad in black and red clothing. She raises a finger to her lips to signal him to be quiet before—reluctantly— rising from her position to follow him out of the room. 

 

“Your grace,” she curtsies, prompting him to do the same. Her heart quickens as she stares directly into his eyes—which reveal nothing— and she wonders wildly as to whether or not she had been summoned back to London to attend her execution—if she was still to be executed, that is. 

 

“You have not had your sons Christened yet,” he said instead, a frown of disapproval plain on his face. 

 

Anne blinks; once, twice and then: 

 

“I wish for my sister and her husband to be the godparents to two of my sons, George and Francis,” she replies smoothly, never missing a beat. She clasps her hands together modestly, fire burning in her veins along with something else, something that she does not wish to admit; to identify. _Fear._

 

“Is. . .” her voice suddenly grows soft, hesitant, revealing some of her inner turmoil. “Is there a reason for me to hurry?” she finishes, her jaw clenching slightly. _Is there an urgent need for me to go to London to my death? Am I meant to die before my sons are to be Christened?_

 

Surprisingly, Brandon deciphers her meaning and his blue eyes—so like Henry’s— soften ever so slightly. “No,” he tells her, relieving her of her horrible fears, “The King has allowed for you to live—in exile, of course. To remain on your estates until or if you are summoned to court by his or her majesty.” 

 

But there is one more matter still pressing on her heart, making it difficult for her to breathe. 

 

“Will his majesty acknowledge his sons?” she asks finally, unable to bear it any longer. She had never attempted to write to the King or Master Cromwell to question them on this matter, for fear that they would either immediately deny her or that she would provoke Henry into a fury that would cause him to execute her the moment the babes left her womb. Her question erases all softness from Brandon’s eyes as he stiffly retorts, “His majesty has instructed me to tell you that he will decide on this matter on the one year anniversary of your sons birth, as by then it will be evident whether or not they are his. Until then, they are to be under your care and protection and I will remain here as your. . .” his voice drifts off. 

 

“As my guardian,” Anne finishes coldly, her eyes flashing. “Is that all, your grace?” she snaps, fury boiling in her veins, “If this conversation is over I would very much wish to depart.” 

 

“Yes, because otherwise I can see you are very busy,” Brandon shoots back. 

 

“Que savez-vous de la façon dont je passe mon temps?” _What do you know of how I spend my time?_ Anne snapped, turning on her heel and entering her son’s nursery once more, unable to bare his presence any longer. A baby begins to cry loudly and Anne, momentarily forgetting her anger and frustration hurries over to the crib, picking Francis up tenderly and cradling him against her chest. 

 

“Shh, mon amour,” she shushes, rocking him gently, “Mama is here.” She presses a gentle kiss to his dark crown, relieved that she will be able to watch him, Elizabeth and the rest of his brothers grow older, no longer plagued by the fear that she would be taken away. 

 

She doesn’t notice Suffolk watching her intently. 

 

_xii._

 

When Mary arrives, she does so with her husband and two children. 

 

Anne abandons all sense of decorum when she pulls her older sister into a tight hug, suddenly realising just how much she had missed her presence over the past few years. Her husband is a handsome man, if a bit rugged, but he loves Mary with all his heart, that she can tell simply by looking at him. Anne, her daughter, is shy and timid, with rosy cheeks and a delicate laugh. Henry, her son, is polite yet easily distracted. 

 

Elizabeth is thrilled to have kids her own age to play with once again. 

 

The boys are baptised at last and Mary and her husband act as the godparents to George and Francis, with Elizabeth—and much to her dismay— and Brandon being Godparents to Mark and William. She was not there, as was the custom, but she listened with an amused smile as Elizabeth told her exasperatedly that they would not stop crying. 

 

It isn’t until Mary and Anne are alone in her chambers later that evening does Anne let her desperation. 

 

“Oh Anne,” Mary murmurs, pulling her into a tight hug as Anne’s shoulders begin to shake, “What has he done to you?” 

 

Anne shakes her head miserably, trying to choke down her sobs. “I am so sorry Mary,” she tells her from where her head is buried against her chest, “I should not have sent you away—“ 

 

“Shh now,” Mary tells her, “All has been forgiven long ago.” 

 

Anne pulls away from her so that she can look into her eyes. 

 

“I am so glad that you are happy.” Anne wants her to know that she means it with all of her heart. Mary smiles at her, soft and familiar, but there is an undeniable twinge of sadness in her eyes. “George. . .” Mary starts, swallowing loudly. 

 

“It was quick,” Anne said tonelessly, the execution playing out in her mind. Her fists were tight and her chest was hollow. She could not bare to think of his death for fear that she may start crying and never stop. There is a moment of sharp silence before Mary spoke, anger evident in her tone. “He made you watch?” 

 

“No,” Anne replied, a doleful smile on her lips, “I stacked up the chests by the window and stood on them to watch.” She can remember it so vividly too, can remember the stricken look in her brothers eyes and the purple bruises under Marks. She can recall the shrieks of the crowd and the pain in her chest. 

 

“I’m so sorry.” 

 

The words escape her lips before she can stop them. 

 

“George is dead because of me—because I could not give the King a son.“ Anne snorts, a bitter expression plain on her features, “At least while we were married, anyway.” Mary reaches over to squeeze her shoulder, a fierce expression in her eyes as she stares into Anne’s own, preventing her from looking away. “Listen to me,” she grounds out, her hand reaching for Anne’s to squeeze it tightly, “None of this is your fault. It is Cromwell’s and Father’s and Norfolk’s and his majesty—not yours. Never yours. You have just given birth to not one but _four_ healthy sons Anne, despite the circumstances. You love so greatly.” 

 

Anne is at a loss for words. 

 

Affection grows in her bosom as she looks at her elder sister and a deep-rooted thankfulness that comes from her very bones. 

 

“Thank you,” Anne finally whispers, “I do not know how to thank you.” 

 

They speak for hours on end into the night, finally settling themselves on Anne’s large bed. 

 

The candle has long since burned out, leaving the room in darkness. “Will he claim them?” Mary asks finally, into the darkness of the night. Anne shifts so that she can see the slight shadows of her sister’s face. “I do not know,” she admits, “Suffolk says that he is to decide when they are one year of age, to see if they resemble him.” 

 

“What _is_ Suffolk doing here at a time like this?” Mary murmurs, “I know you do not like the man but I must say I feel sorry for him—“ 

 

“What, why?” Anne questioned sharply. 

 

“You didn’t know?” Mary replied, “His wife recently died of an illness not two months passed.” 

 

“Oh,” Anne murmurs softly, raising a hand to her forehead. 

 

Oh, indeed. 

 

_xiii._

 

Mary and her husband leave a month after they come to Pembroke (Christmastide had been a surprisingly joyful affair and everyone had loved their gifts, especially Elizabeth), leaving their children behind. Anne knew it had been difficult for Mary to part from them—if only for a few months each year— so they could receive a better education with Elizabeth. Mary had not been willing to be part from them permanently and had reluctantly agreed to them staying for three months each year before returning back to the Stafford estate. 

 

Elizabeth is thrilled with the company, that Anne knows, and she herself is pleased that she is reconciled with her sister and that her daughter is happy. Her sons are growing fast and healthily and she has been left alone by the outside world. She hears not from court, only brief reports that Lewis tells her once a week when she breaks her fast. The only problem or issue that Anne has is Brandon. 

 

Not that she sees him often— she had made an obvious effort to avoid his company and whenever she was forced to do so she made sure that the encounter was as quick as possible— but the thought of him being in her presence makes her skin scrawl with fear. _He_ had been the one to take her to the tower. _He_ had been pleased to watch her fall from the King’s graces. _He_ had despised her with every fibre of his being. Not that Anne did not return the sentiment, but now that she was on fragile ground it was difficult to be around him. 

 

Though Anne was trying. For Elizabeth’s and her son’s sakes she was trying not to anger him, for fear of what he might say to the King. 

 

Anne is sitting in a chair in the library, a book in one hand and an apple in the other. She is wearing a dark grey gown rimmed with fur and plain slippers. She is intensely focused on her reading, though she pauses to take a bite out of the thinning apple. Her sons are asleep and Elizabeth is at her lessons. She has dismissed her ladies for a short while, preferring to spend time alone. She does not notice the Duke of Suffolk entering the room until he clears his throat. 

 

“Your grace,” Anne mutters, acknowledging his presence, though her eyes do not lift up from the page. “Lady Marquess,” he returns with equal enthusiasm. There is a moment of uncomfortable silence that drags on too long for Anne’s liking. “Is there something I can help you with?” She asks stonily, regretfully giving him her attention. The Duke does not respond, instead choosing to role his eyes at her tone, turning his back to leave the room.

 

“Your grace,” Anne calls out after him, rising from her chair. She feels oddly uncomfortable as she observes him, her words awkward on her tongue, though she would be damned if she showed it. “I was sorry to hear about your wife,” She tells him, holding onto her book tightly with one hand. He blinks at her surprised, a variety of expressions circling in his blue eyes before he nods. “Thank you, madam.” 

 

He leaves the room without another word. 

 

_xiv._

 

Try as Anne might, however,  her patience with the Duke runs thin. While they both may detest each other they had similar qualities; Anne and Charles were equally stubborn and hated admitting that they were wrong. The short period of peace that had developed after the scene in the library had faded by the time the quadruplets had turned 3 months old. Maybe it was because the Duke was obviously unhappy at Pembroke or because Anne did not want him there, she did not know. All she knew was that they were at each others throats at every given opportunity. She could not even begin to hide their animosity in front of Elizabeth any longer. 

 

One night, after they had exchanged biting words in the outer rooms of her chambers, Anne finally had enough. 

 

“I despise you,” Anne tells him bluntly, dismissing her ladies with a flicker of her wrist. 

 

“Likewise,” Charles retorts, his cheeks flushed with anger. 

 

Anne sighed tiredly, kneading her forehead with her fingers. “Can we at least try to maintain peace?” she asks him infuriatingly. 

 

“As long as I am to stay here—“

 

“I never asked you to come here!” Anne snaps, her eyes wide with fury as she takes another step towards Brandon. They are so close together that their chests brush against each other, but neither seem to notice, too busy staring into each others eyes. “I detest you,” Charles tells her, his blue eyes dark. “Likewise,” Anne shoots back, echoing his words. 

 

And then something changes. 

 

There is anger, yes of course, and stubbornness and frustration but there is also a different kind of tension. One that makes a flush comes to her cheeks and her stomach tighten with anticipation. His eyes flicker down to her lips—once, twice and then— 

 

In the months to come, Anne is not too sure which one of them leaned forward first, all she knows is that in one moment they were glaring at each other and the next their lips were fused together. Anne nearly stumbles backwards due to the sheer force of it and Charles wraps an arm around her waist to steady her. The kiss is hard and unforgiving—brutal almost. Their teeth clash and they both tug at the others scalp, each unwilling to back down. 

 

They are both stubborn and passionate. 

 

Fire and fire make an even bigger fire and their hatred serves to engulf them completely as their lips tug and pull together furiously. They both pull back for air simultaneously, staring into each others eyes with a sense of wonder for a split moment and before sense can talk them both out of it their lips find each other once more. Anne stumbles back into the wall with a small gasp, a flare of anger erupting under her skin at Brandon’s smirk. She tugs on his lower lip and slides her hands down to the front of his breeches, smirking at his muffled groan. 

 

And then— 

 

Their need does not allow them to undress fully. Anne merely tugs down Brandon’s breaches and he shoves the skirt of her dress up as he pins her against the wall, wrapping her legs around his waist. They moan in unison when they finish a good while later and it takes a moment in her haziness to realise what they had just done. 

 

“We should not have done that,” Anne says, gently lowering her legs from where they were wrapped around his waist. Charles looks at her, his lips swollen and his hair mussed up. “No,” he agrees, swiping at his lips, though she can feel his gaze stripping her bare. Anne is sore—deliciously sore. She can feel the messiness of her curls and the redness of her lips. She feels strangely peaceful; all the hatred and hanger having been drained from her. 

 

“We should not have.” 

 

Their eyes meet again and maybe in that moment Anne was possessed by some lunacy or enchantment but she could not make herself regret what they had done. It was stupid, that she knew, if Henry ever caught wind of what they done both of their heads would be on spikes. Anne had every intention of telling him to forget it and that it would never happen again, truly she does but something dark and malicious within herself does not let her. 

 

_Perhaps it is because he looks like Henry,_ she thinks, observing him, _or maybe it is because I want to hurt Henry as badly as he hurt me._ Anne shakes her head, shoving those thoughts into the deepest compartments of her mind. “Will you tell his majesty?” She asks him quietly, her eyes downcast. 

 

Much to her surprise, he snorts out loud, shaking his head. “Not if I wish to have my own head cut off.” Anne’s lips quirk upwards and she laughs loudly for the first time in what feels like centuries. She giggles as she realises their predicament; _I just lay with the man who took me to the tower on charges of adultery!_ The thought just makes her howl even louder and by then Charles is laughing too, his shoulders shaking. 

 

“Oh God,” Anne says, her eyes bright with tears due to the sheer force of her laughter. “We are both mad,” she declares, her giggles finally dying, being replaced by an undeniable sadness. This time, when a tear slides down her cheek, she lets it. 

 

_What is wrong with me?_

 

_xv._

 

It is strange, the relationship that grows between them afterwards. 

 

They are not lovers, not yet friends but they are companions. 

 

Anne can finally stand to be in his presence without fearing that he will take her away again on some trumped up charge. Charles begins to spend time with Elizabeth and Anne is weary of the growing attachment her daughter has to him, fearful that it would break her heart when he left on the day of her brother’s birth. They lay with each other again after the first time (Anne had been told by Eleanor that she would never again conceive after the birth of the boys)—they are both careful but if Anne were to be honest with herself she does not think that her ladies or the rest of her household would care— but they still do not talk or grow affectionate. 

 

Until— 

 

Anne is sitting by newly lit fireplace with Elizabeth in her lap and the boys beside them in each of their lavish carriers. Anne is pressing a kiss to Elizabeth’s head, reading a story to her and her siblings. “The Princess—“ 

 

“What was her name?” interrupts Elizabeth, her eyes wide. 

 

“Why Elizabeth of course,” Anne gasps, showering her daughter’s face with kisses. Anne delights in her giggles and casts a glance towards her son’s. All of their eyes are wide as Anne waves at them, causing them to hiccup in unison. Elizabeth laughs delightedly, sliding off her lap to play with her brothers. Nan takes the book out from her outstretched hand and Anne slides off her chair to join Elizabeth in front of her son’s, a wide smile on her face as she bends down to press kisses onto their little hands. “Oh my darlings,” she utters, overwhelmed by her love for them. 

 

Her knees start to tire after a little while, so she moves to stand, now taking notice of the Duke of Suffolk in the doorway. “Your grace,” she acknowledges, walking across the room to stand next to him. As Anne observes, she notices how his eyes are wide with realisation, as though he had suddenly discovered something new that shocked him. That changed him somehow. “You love your children,” he stated, as though the thought only just occurred to him now. 

 

Anne raises an eyebrow at him, simultaneously confused and insulted. “I beg your pardon?” 

 

His cheeks flush as he realises what he said. 

 

“What I meant, Lady Marquess, is that. . . I have never seen someone love their child so deeply since I witnessed the Dowager Princess with Lady Mary.” Anne stiffens at the mention of Katherine though something within her trembles with shame as she remembers all the horrible thoughts she had had about the former Queen and her daughter over the past few years. “Perhaps we were not as different as you made us out to be,” Anne tells him. 

 

“Your grace!” Elizabeth gasps from across the room, curtsying appropriately before moving towards them, a bright smile painted on her features. “Lady Elizabeth!” He responds, lowering himself to her height. Anne observes the two of them together, taking notice of how genuine Brandon’s smile is. It was not difficult for her to believe that he was under Elizabeth’s spell; her daughter was a charming girl, even when she was so young. She had a captivating presence and was immediately the centre of everyones attention whenever she entered a room. _He has a son,_ Anne reminds herself, _he must miss him._ The Duke had been at Pembroke ever since she had birthed the boys and he had never received any other visitors nor had he left the estate. He had not seen his son for months. 

 

When Elizabeth is eventually summoned to the rest of her afternoon lessons, Anne turns to Brandon and says, “Your son may come to visit if you wish.” Surprise flickers across his face as his mouth opens. “Thank you, my lady,” he tells her sincerely. Anne nods, a small smile forming on her lips. 

 

From that day on, they become allies, if not even friends. 

 

They are in Anne’s chambers, having just lain together when he asks: 

 

“What if you become with child?” 

 

Anne had had her back to him and the tresses of her dark locks brush against the small of her back when she turns to look at him, pulling the corner of the sheet up so it covers her breasts. “Lady Eleanor told me that I will never be able to conceive again, after the birth of the boys.” There is a small, almost unrecognisable hint of bitterness in her voice and he notices it, if the way he frowns at her says anything. 

 

“This only began to bother you now?” Anne asks him, quirking one eyebrow up at him. He laughs airily, laying on his back to stare up at the canopy. “Yes,” he admits, wiping a hand over his face. There is a moment of silence before Anne leans over to the bedside table, pouring them both to glasses of wine. “I am bored,” she declares, passing him his glass once he had risen against the headboard. He rolls his eyes at her before muttering, “Fine, my lady. Then let us play a game of truths. We both say a statement, for example I ask, what is your most pleasant memory, we both share our stories and whoever does not have the best one, has to drink from their cup.” 

 

Anne nods, intrigued, leaning against the bedpost. “You start,” she commands softly, swirling the wine in her cup. “Alright,” Brandon allows, thinking intently for a moment. “Who is the person you have admired the most?” 

 

Anne replies without hesitation, “Margaret of Austria, as she was incredibly wise and intelligent. She was once told us, if you trust in those who service you, you will find yourself in the ranks of those who have been deceived.” Brandon is quiet for a moment, before letting out a chuckle and taking a swing of his cup. “You did not share your story,” Anne points out amusedly. He shakes his head at her, a wry smile appearing on his face as he replied, “I was going to say my dance master as a child.” Anne laughs loudly at this, shaking her head at him. He laughs as well as he admits, “I am atrocious at it— he used to refer to me as _Le désespéré_. The hopeless.” 

 

“He does not sound as though he was fond of you.” 

 

“He wasn’t; but his patience in trying to pretend he did was admirable.” 

 

Anne shook her head at him but began to think of what she wished to know. “Hmmm,” she pondered, stroking her chin, “What is the worst punishment you have ever received as a child?” 

 

They spend the next hour or so, talking and laughing, sharing stories with an ease that Anne supposes should make her cautious, but instead serves to bring her comfort. When their glasses are nearly empty however, and their laughs have died down, Anne asks him the one question that she is truly curious to know the answer to. 

 

“Why did the King send you here?” she asks him. She is lying next to him now, their wine glasses forgotten on the beside table. Charles—Anne is not quite sure when he became Charles to her, all she knew was that within the span of a moment he was once His grace and then Charles, similar to how she had become _Anne_ to him— inhales sharply and Anne can feel his body tighten. “I said something,” he says faintly, as though he was reliving the memory, “Something that displeased his majesty and so he sent me here as punishment.” 

 

Anne looks up at him, causing him to meet her gaze. She takes advantage of his vulnerability so that she swings her legs over his hips, so that she is now sitting on top of him, completely bare. “And is your punishment truly so horrible?” she asks coyly, turning her head so that her brown locks were brought over to one side. The mention of Henry had caused something within her to stir and she desperately wished to forget him, the same way she was sure Charles wished to forget his wife. “No,” he admits truthfully, his eyes darkening as he places his hands on her hips, anchoring her, “No it is not so bad.” 

 

And then they lost themselves in each other, desperate to forget the two people who still haunted their hearts. 

 

_xvi._

 

Anne enjoyed the peace that Pembroke brought her. 

 

She had once thrived on court life, under Henry’s loving gaze, but now she found herself being far happier on her estates than she was during her last months at court. She had no desire to return, and had no intention of doing so until—

 

“The Queen has invited the Lady Elizabeth to Court,” Charles says, breaking the silence. 

 

They had all taken to breaking their fasts with each other at least once a week. It was a gloomy day in April, and rain was hitting the window with a great intensity. Elizabeth looked up from her food, confused. Henry had not sent letters to Elizabeth at all since he had sent Anne to Pembroke, and had neither given her gifts on her birthday or at Christmastide, much to Anne’s anger. Elizabeth hardly ever asked her of her father anymore, having grown to accept—even if though Anne could see it saddened her— that her father did not wish to see her. 

 

“What?” Anne asked flatly, her heart beginning to quicken with panic—and fear. 

 

“The Queen has asked for the Lady Elizabeth and his majesty has expressed desire to see her once again.” 

 

Which meant that Anne could not say no or say that Elizabeth had become ill. 

 

“Mama may I please go?” Elizabeth asks, looking at her pleadingly. Anne tightens her jaw and her grip on her utensils tighten so greatly that her hand grows red. “Very well,” Anne says, nodding her ascent, “We must order new dresses from the Seamstress.” Elizabeth squeals excitedly but Anne meets Charles’s grave eyes from across the table. “I shall go with her.” 

 

Anne winces at the sudden clatter that echoes through the room as a result of Charles slamming his cup down in surprise. There is a beat; a moment. 

 

“Have I upset his grace?” Anne asks cooly, suddenly filled to the brim with a cold fury. 

 

“No,” he replies stiffly, “Madam you have not.” 

 

In the week to come, Anne tries not to grow unsure of her decision. Mary had also written to her of her worries when Anne had mentioned that she would be returning to court, and had asked her to tread carefully. Anne had every intention of doing so; she desired with all her heart to return to Pembroke; to her sons, with Elizabeth at her sides. The only reason that Anne was joining her daughter was because she feared what would happen. If she would be mistreated or perhaps even poisoned by her enemies or if Henry would treat her with coldness and anger. Anne would not leave her daughter alone to the wolves. Never. For as long as she lived, Anne would protect her with every fibre of her being. 

 

Charles however, disapproved. 

 

It was not as though he voiced it openly and often but it was in his eyes every time Elizabeth mentioned their upcoming travel—he had been summoned to court as well— and in the way his fists clenched when Anne received their new dresses from the seamstress. Anne did not have the patience nor the desire to speak with him; her resolve was already quite thin. 

 

On the day of they were meant to leave, Anne found herself in her son’s nursery, holding George in her arms. “Farewell my love,” she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss onto the crown of his head. She laid him back down and did the same with Francis and Mark, her heart aching to be part from them. The three of them had been quiet but William had begun to shriek in her arms, as though he were trying to stop her from leaving. “Shh my heart,” she whispered fervently, pressing kisses to his head as he wailed, “I will return, I promise you, my dark-haired prince.” 

 

They left Pembroke shortly after first light and Anne wondered as to whether or not she would make it back. 

 

_xvii._

 

They arrive in London two days later, to crowd filled streets. Anne can hear their shouts from within the carriage and holds onto Elizabeth’s hand, who is smiling at her bravely. Anne lifts their joint hands to place a kiss on her daughter’s and casts her a small smile, which quickly dissolves once the carriage comes to a stop. Once the door opens and her ladies exit, Anne moves with Elizabeth out of the carriage, suddenly bombarded by the people of London. Elizabeth was holding onto a pouch of money that she wished to distribute, with Anne’s ladies holding her own one, but Anne was suddenly wary of the idea. Elizabeth however, looked unafraid at the sight of the endless crowd and when she moved forward, Anne had no choice but to follow her. 

 

Elizabeth had long since let go of her hand and began to distribute money under the watchful eye of the guards that accompanied them. Anne did so next to her, casting out distracted smiles, busy looking out for her daughter. “God Bless you Madam!” some yelled. 

 

“A true princess!” 

 

“Your majesty welcome home!” 

 

“Bless you!” 

 

“The Kings Daughter!” 

 

Anne smiled with bemusement; if only they had shown her such support when she had first become Queen. Anne remembered how the streets of London had been empty and how those who had shown up called her a whore and had hollow, angry expressions. She caught Charles eye, suddenly realising that he had known of her sudden rise in popularity and that he did not mention it for a reason. 

 

Her heart beat quickened drastically as she waved at the crowd, gently placing a hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder to push her towards the castle doors. “But Mama—“ 

 

“We must hurry Elizabeth,” Anne cuts her off firmly, leaving the shouts of the crowd behind them. Charles moves next to her when the doors shut behind them and his presence is surprisingly comforting. “The King and Queen are awaiting your arrival in the main hall,” a messenger told them curtly, “Follow me.” Anne exhales sharply moving forward. They left the entrance hall and followed the messenger into a long corridor that was dimly lit, though Anne could hear the echoes of the court from where she was. There laughter and shouts— Anne remembered court vividly. Remembers how while there could be joy and laughter—it was like a battlefield but instead of swords and arrows there were whispers and cutting smiles. 

 

Charles moves his hand to brush against hers—just for a split second but it is long enough for Anne to turn her head to look at him, knowing that it was not an accident. She can not thank him aloud so she shows him with her eyes, genuinely grateful for his support. They reach the end of the hall and Anne does not have enough time to exhale before the doors are opened, exposing them to the courts view. The room instantly grows silent at the sight of them, the tension so thick no knife could cut through it. Anne keeps her head held high, her eyes focused on the front of the room. She can not see Henry or Jane but she keeps her gaze there as they move forward, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. She keeps a blank expression on her face and does not glance towards the parted crowds, though she can hear their whispers. Elizabeth reaches for her hand and it is only then that Anne turns her head to look at her, a small encouraging smile forming on her lips. Anne had made sure that Elizabeth was dressed to the finest— her daughter was dressed in a splendid green gown that brought out the redness of her curls, which had been let down, though the crowd of her head was graced by a golden head band. Anne herself was dressed in a blue gown that was adorned with purple embroidery and wore simple jewellery. 

 

Elizabeth’s eyes were unsure under the protruding stares and occasional glares coming from the crowd. Anne raised her eyes, instinctively sending them fierce looks that caused most to avert their gaze. Calmed, Anne turned to the front once more, finally catching sight of— 

 

_Oh._

 

_Oh._

 

Her heart ached tremendously at the sight of Henry. She felt as though she were being split into two— part of her wanted to scream at the sight of him due to her hatred and anger towards him, but another part of part simply wanted to weep. _We could have had it all,_ she thinks, fighting the urge to scratch at her skin with her sudden frustration. Anne caught sight of Jane Seymour next to Henry and she could not deny that it stung immensely to see her with a crown on her head. _But with no child in her belly,_ some part of her deep down whispered. _Quiet,_ she thought harshly to herself, _you must think of Elizabeth._

 

Anne curtsied along with Elizabeth once they stopped in front of Hen— the King, keeping her gaze lowered to the floor. 

 

“Your majesty,” Anne uttered, not looking up from the ground—though she desperately wanted to, with every fibre of her being— waiting for the King or Mistress Seymour to acknowledge her. It pained Anne greatly to be so. . . _obedient_ but she knew that her sudden pardon was on fragile ground; if she were to upset Henry or Jane she would be sent back to the tower and beheaded at a moments notice, leaving Elizabeth, George, Mark, Francis and William alone in the world. She would not let that happen. Never. Even if she had to kiss _Jane Seymour’s_ hand and smile at her. 

 

“Lady Marquess,” Henry acknowledged, his voice cool. The court was so silent Anne felt as though she would hear it if a feather was dropped onto the floor. 

 

Anne lifted her head for a split second, rising from her curtsey and offered a small smile— that she had to force on her face— and when she saw Henry’s eyes flicker to Elizabeth her insides tightened with tension. As if sensing her unease, Elizabeth grabbed ahold of her one hand, causing Anne to look down at her. Looking at her daughter; so alike in looks with her father, Anne could not help but smile encouragingly. 

 

“Your majesty,” Elizabeth said, her voice sounding much more pleasant than hers had. Henry’s eyes were cold as he stared at her; for a moment he looked as though he were inspecting her before he smiled warmly at her, causing Anne to exhale with relief. “Elizabeth,” Henry called out, opening his arms out as he stood from his throne. Elizabeth sent her a questioning look to make sure that it was alright and Anne nodded her permission, giving her a small, insincere smile. Elizabeth needed no further prompting and ran towards her father, giggling happily. It pained Anne to see them together, as though nothing had changed over the past year. As though he had not had her imprisoned and nearly killed and declared Elizabeth a bastard in the eyes of the law and God. 

 

She was half tempted to stride over and shake him senseless. 

 

Charles moved to stand next to her, watching Elizabeth and Henry with a blank expression. Anne looked at him from the corner of her eye, looking for something, _anything_ that would indicate what he was thinking. Alas, she could not find anything and so she resolved to act the same, carefully painting her features into a blank expression that revealed nothing of her inner thoughts. Anne watched as Elizabeth greeted Jane and nearly sighed with relief when her daughter’s smile did not falter. Anne was surprised to hear a loud exhale come out from Charles lips as he watched Jane with Elizabeth. 

 

_He’s worried,_ Anne realised, blinking rapidly, _he’s scared for Elizabeth._ Years later, Anne would look upon this moment with remnants of confusion; something inside her snapped. Cracked, more like. A sliver of warmness tightened around her heart like a knot, squeezing tightly. _Thank you_ she wanted to mouth, but she knew it was far too dangerous for her to do so. One of her many enemies would seize upon such a moment like a hungry vulture. 

 

“Il est un famille!” Some courtiers were calling out. 

 

Anne did not know when the Lady Mary had been invited to court but she had to physically restrain herself from rolling her eyes when she saw her standing next to the King and Elizabeth. _No doubt this was Seymour’s doing,_ she thought darkly, _how sweet of her._ Anne breathed in deeply, waiting for Elizabeth to return to her side. Anne let her gaze wonder around court, taking note of the various familiar and non-familiar faces that all had one thing in common; they avoided her gaze. There were the Seymour’s and their allies; the Spanish and French Ambassador, several other ladies that had flocked around court during her reign— and then there was the Duke of Norfolk, her uncle. Unlike the others, who were too busy staring at the King and Queen and their ‘family’ , he was looking at the ground, as though he knew she were watching him. Anne had dreamt of the moment where she would see him again, she had wondered as to whether or not she would hate him or be hurt that he had not rushed to her defence when she had first been charged but now she found that she was. . . empty. Void. 

 

Anne had no interest in wasting any more of her time on people who no longer deserved it. 

 

“Mama!” Elizabeth cried happily once the music commenced, bounding over to her. “My love,” Anne replied, quickly smiling at her daughter, pressing a kiss to her cheek. Elizabeth quickly caught Charles attention and Anne watched with a careful expression, wary that some would catch onto the relationship she had with him or spread rumours that _he_ was Elizabeth’s father. Charles glanced at her, and as though he read her mind, quietly said something to Elizabeth that caused her to return to her father’s side, though a smile remained on her face. 

 

Anne was careful to keep an eye on Elizabeth as few people began to come and greet her—very few people, who did so quickly and abruptly— plastering a smile on her face so as not to draw attention to herself. 

 

When Anne was eventually escorted to her chambers—which were next to Elizabeth’s— she nearly collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. Being here was painful—every inch of the castle reminded her of the days when she was Queen, and the paranoia and fear that came with it. She had been left alone for the most part and had preferred it that way. 

 

_Let me hope it stays that way,_ Anne thought, right before she fell asleep. 

 

_xviii_

 

The boy standing in front of her was the split image of his father. With his brown hair that reached the nape of his neck, and blue eyes that were the colour of the sky, Henry Brandon was identical to his father.

 

“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord,” Anne tells him, casting him  a small smile. They are in one of the courtyards that leads to the gardens. Anne and Elizabeth had been walking there when they had bumped into Charles with his son. 

 

“Merci, madame Marquess. C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer et votre fille aussi,” Henry replied, causing Anne’s lips to twitch with amusement. 

 

“Merci Monsieur!” Elizabeth chirped, curtsying to the boy, who quickly offered a bow. 

 

“We will let you be on your way,” Charles told them eventually, cupping his son’s shoulder. Anne met his eyes for a moment and nodded, knowing that it was wise for them not to be seen as _enjoying_ each others company. “Good day, your grace,” Anne said in return and then watched with Elizabeth as they walked away. 

 

“He seems very nice Mama,” Elizabeth told her, looking up at Anne, her cheeks rosy under the suns rays. “Indeed he does,” Anne agreed, her tone playful, “You’ll make sure that your brothers also end up as nice?” 

 

“Of course Mama!” Elizabeth agreed heartily, causing Anne to laugh gently. 

 

Her laughter disappeared at the sight of one of the royal messengers approaching them and her body quickly stiffened, her hold on Elizabeth’s shoulder tightening. 

 

“May I help you?” Anne asks coldly, her jaw tightening. 

 

“My lady Marquess, the Queen has sent me to extend an invite to the Lady Elizabeth to join her for lunch, if you would be willing.” The man spoke as if he had not heard her. Outwardly, Anne was sure to keep a calm expression but her insides bristled at his words. _Stupid blonde wench,_ Anne thought angrily, carefully masking her displeasure. 

 

“Of course,” Anne said pleasantly, tilting her head, “Would she like for Elizabeth to come now?” 

 

“Yes,” the man replied. 

 

Anne looked down at Elizabeth and frowned slightly when she took notice of her slightly troubled expression. “Give us a moment,” Anne told him and then gently pulls Elizabeth off to the side so he could not hear what they were saying. “What’s wrong sweetheart?” she asked gently, cupping her cheeks. “I. . .is she my mama too?” Elizabeth questioned quietly, “Because I only want one Mama—I don’t know why she is Queen—“ 

 

“Elizabeth,” Anne interrupted firmly, her heart rising to her throat, “That woman is Queen and a fair and just one. Your father loves her dearly and I never want to hear you say anything bad about her to anyone, is that understood?” It pained Anne to reprimand her daughter so sternly but Anne knew it had to be done. If anyone, _anyone,_ heard Elizabeth speaking ill of Jane, Anne would be blamed for influencing her daughter to hate the Queen and as a result, she would be put to death, leaving Elizabeth and her brothers to the mercy of the Seymour’s and the anger of the King. Elizabeth nodded, her expression solemn. Anne offered her a quick, hurried smile before they returned to the messenger, following him without a word. 

 

They arrive there within moments—even though the Queen’s chambers were quite far from where they were— and Anne has barely a moment to compose herself before the doors open and they are escorted in. The Queen’s ladies are there in one side of the room, standing there obediently as the observe Jane Seymour and _Mary_ at the table. Anne can feel her jaw lock at the sight of the late Katherine’s daughter but there is also remnants of guilt; Anne is not proud of some of the things she said about the Lady Mary during her time as Queen and even before then but that does not mean that Anne still does not feel slightly threatened by her, even though she knows that it is foolish to do so. 

 

Anne and Elizabeth curtsy deeply when the Seymour girl rises and it takes every single part of Anne’s control to not look her right in the eye. 

 

“Lady Elizabeth,” Jane says brightly, causing Elizabeth to murmur, “Your majesty.” Anne had to bite down on her tongue so a scoff did not escape her mouth. It made her want to vomit; she would not call _Jane Seymour_ of all people Queen if she could help it. 

 

“Lady Marquess.” There was only a small hint of surprise in the blonde woman’s voice— and an even smaller hint of displeasure. Anne lifted her head to meet the woman’s eyes and it took a great deal of effort for her to mask her hatred. _She_ was largely responsible for the death of her son, _she_ actively rubbed the King’s affection in her face whist she was pregnant. _Jane_ delighted in her downfall and played an active role in her downfall. 

 

“Madame,” Anne replied, clasping her hands in front of herself modestly. Jane’s smile did not reach her eyes as a flash of annoyance appeared in her eyes before disappearing. “I did not know that you would be joining us for luncheon, my invitation was only to the Lady Elizabeth.” Anne bit down her lip to hide her scowl. 

 

“Forgive me—“ Anne was sure to keep her voice light and airy— “I merely wished to keep an eye on my daughter and make sure that she was well cared for. A mother’s love is a truly possessive thing—I am sure that when you eventually become a mother yourself you will understand.” 

 

Anne smiled widely at the disgruntled woman and then reverted her gaze to the Lady Mary. “Lady Mary,” Anne greeted, her voice sounding less sweet but all the more genuine in her heart, “I am glad to see you well.” If the young lady was surprised at her words, she did a good job of hiding it. “Thank you Madame,” is all she said in return, her features set in stone. Anne nodded at her in acknowledgement, understanding that the girl had no interest in interacting with her and she was more than willing to comply. 

 

There was several moments of awkward silence before Anne finally had enough. Unfortunately for her, however, Jane began to talk at the same time. 

 

“I shall take my leave—“ 

 

“I ask of you to stay—“ 

 

They both stopped talking at once and though it pained Anne to do so, she let the Queen continue on speaking. 

 

“Since you are already here, your grace, you may as well stay with us.” The way she said it made it sound like an offer but Anne knew—and she bristled at the fact— that it was a command. “As you command,” Anne replied, curtsying. Anne observed as Jane’s ladies hurriedly brought up another chair to the table and quickly set about fetching another pair of utensils. Anne sat next to Elizabeth at the rectangular table, at the head was Jane, and in front of her was Mary. 

 

The silence was so tense and awkward that Elizabeth reached for her hand under the table and squeezed it tightly. Anne returned the gesture. 

 

“Thank you for inviting my daughter and I to court,” Anne said, looking at Jane. 

 

Jane made sure to not look at her as she replied, instead she smiled at Elizabeth, which to Anne looked as though someone was pulling at her cheeks with strings. “I wished for the Lady Elizabeth to be reconciled with her father, Madame, he missed her so dearly, as I am sure she missed him.” 

 

“I give you my thanks, your majesty,” Elizabeth replied obediently, her tone formal and regal. Anne was immeasurably proud of her in that moment, her _sweet darling, intelligent girl. The best daughter a mother could ever ask for._ “I dearly missed my father.” 

 

“I assume you have been busy with your studies,” Jane began, just as servants began to serve the first course, “How is your new governess?” 

 

Anne observed the conversation quietly, ready to step in if Elizabeth floundered, but her daughter showed no sign of nervousness as she conversed with her step mother. She looked comfortable and serious so like— _so like Henry._ The similarities between them were undeniable. 

 

“My new governess, Lady Ashley, is very agreeable and has taught me well, almost as much as my lady mother.” 

 

Jane and Mary looked at her now, one sharply and the other blankly. 

 

“The King and I had no idea that you were partaking and helping with Elizabeth’s lessons, Lady Marquess,” Jane stated, sounding slightly alarmed. 

 

Anne, however, was calm. 

 

“I merely converse with my daughter in french, Madame, in order to help improve her enjoyment and knowledge in learning the language. That is as far as my role goes in terms of my daughter’s education.” 

 

“And do you enjoy learning languages Elizabeth?” Mary asked, speaking for the first time since they had sat at the table. 

 

Elizabeth looked at her sister, a more happier expression appearing on her features now that she was talking to her sister rather than Jane. Anne had obviously been aware that Mary had served Elizabeth whilst she had been a princess, but she had no idea how far their relationship went. How affectionate they were with each other, if they were at all. 

 

“Very much, Lady Mary. I enjoy my learning.” 

 

“But surely you enjoy embroidery and playing as well,” Jane inserted, eyeing the interaction between the sisters. 

 

“Yes, your majesty,” Elizabeth agreed, “I enjoy playing with my brothers very much.” 

 

Anne had been drinking wine from her cup at the time and it took a great deal of effort for her to not spit it out. She managed to purse her lips and swallow the wine as she watched the varying degrees of expressions flutter across Jane Seymour’s face. Jane was at a loss of how to reply. Sensing her distress, Lady Mary came to her stepmother’s rescue. 

 

“And how are your sons, Lady Anne?” she asked, “I beg your pardon but I happen to not know much about them, not even their names.” 

 

“Their names,” Anne began sternly, unaware of the door opening behind her, “Are George, Mark, Francis and William, Lady Mary and they are doing quite well, thank you.” 

 

“And what wonderful names they are,” The King’s cool voice spoke from behind her. 

 

Anne nearly jumped up in fright, standing up immediately and turning around to face him. His face was planted into a firm, emotionless mask but Anne could see rage swirling in his eyes and in that moment she was so frightened it took her breath away. 

 

“Your majesty,” she murmured, trying to control the rapid beating of her heart. 

 

She heard the other ladies rise from their chairs as well and Elizabeth murmur next to her, “Your majesty.” 

 

Henry’s gaze flickered to Elizabeth and his features softened slightly and yet Anne was still not at ease. Her gaze moved to the figure behind him and she was surprised to see Charles staring at her. She remembered that he had said that the King had sent him to Pembroke as punishment and she wondered briefly if he was planning on returning to the King’s favour now that he was back at court.

 

“My Queen,” Henry greeted, moving over to Jane to kiss her hands. Anne locked her jaw at the sight, a warm fury setting her chest on fire as she watched him gaze at Jane with a fondness that had once been reserved for her, all thoughts of Charles forgotten.  She quickly averted her eyes to the ground, slightly fearful that she would not be able to hold her tongue. Her position was precarious and fragile, one slip of the tongue and she was doomed. 

 

“Elizabeth,” Henry called out warmly, after he had said his greetings to the Lady Mary. Elizabeth walked over to her father calmly before curtsying once more, “Your majesty.” It was quite unlike the interaction between the two yesterday and Anne observed Henry as he frowned at their daughter before he redirected his gaze towards her, as if _she_ was to blame for her sudden change in behaviour. 

 

Anne refused to look down and met his gaze, daring him to blame her for something that was obviously his fault. He had not greeted her and had treated her coldly in front of their daughter, how else was Elizabeth meant to react, especially after everything that had happened. “I was not aware that you were joining the Queen for luncheon, Lady Marquess,” he told her, placing a fatherly hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. 

 

“The Queen was kind enough to invite me to stay when I accompanied Elizabeth here, your majesty,” she replied cooly, trying to mask her inner turmoil. The King nodded at her words and then averted his gaze from hers as though he could not bare to look at her any longer. 

 

Anne frowned slightly and turned her head slightly to meet Charles gaze. _Don’t say anything,_ his eyes warned, making her nod discretely. “I will take my leave with your permission, your majesty,” Anne stated, clasping her hands together. The King nodded and before she left she cast a smile in Elizabeth’s direction, making the young girls features light up. She nodded at Lady Mary and the Queen and then left the room, brushing past Charles as she went. 

 

She exhaled loudly when the door shut behind her, her heart sinking in her chest. _Oh Dear God,_ she thought, placing a hand on her chest as she stopped walking once she had turned a corner and was far enough away from the Queen’s chambers. She did not have to wait long for Charles to join her. 

 

“You are playing a dangerous game,” he told her quietly. 

 

Anne snapped her eyes up to meet his, suddenly annoyed. 

 

“I am not playing any games, your grace,” she snapped, careful to keep her voice low. 

 

He scoffed slightly, causing her to grow even more infuriated. “Mentioning your sons names, their wellbeing—“ 

 

“The Lady Mary asked—“ 

 

“When the Queen is not yet pregnant and has shown no sign of being so despite almost a year of marriage? You have not heard the jokes and rumours about the King—about how you made a fool out of him by giving birth to not one but _four_ healthy sons after he had your marriage annulled, when the very reason he had done so was because you had not given him any!” 

 

“I am aware of that!” she hissed, no longer caring that they were in a very public place, “But in case you have forgotten, if I show any slight or hatred towards the King’s sweetheart or his beloved eldest daughter I will have my head on a spike before I can even finish pleading for mercy! He hates me Charles—he can not even bare to look at me. He is merely waiting for the right moment to condemn me for a crime that I never committed!” 

 

Charles fell silent at her words, knowing that they were true. 

 

When she turned to leave, he grabbed a hold of her elbow but before she could say anything she yanked it out of his hands, snarling into his face, “Do not follow me.” 

 

_xix._

 

Anne is reunited with Elizabeth shortly before the festivities for the evening, her anger having long since cooled. Her daughter is dressed in a splendid and newly made gold coloured gown that makes her appear even more beautiful to Anne’s eyes, though she had not that previously possible. 

 

The festivities are well under way when they make their way to the great hall and Anne smiles when she takes note of all the dancing and music that she had once enjoyed dearly. Now, she merely observed the festivities with a cool expression, eager to remain on the sidelines. 

 

Unbeknownst to her, other people had something different in mind. 

 

It did not take long for Henry to shower Elizabeth with presents—a late birthday present he called it, as Elizabeth marvelled at her new jewels— and as Anne watched from the sidelines, Charles appeared next to her, watching Elizabeth intently. “She seems happy,” he commented, causing Anne to look at him sharply. “She does,” Anne agreed, some remnant’s of anger remaining from this afternoon. There was a moment before he responded and when he did Anne was slightly taken aback by his sincerity, “I am sorry for what I said earlier, it was not my place to comment on what you do and don’t decide to do with your children.” 

 

_What was his place?_ Anne wondered. He was there to report her movements to Henry but— they were friends now, allies even. They had explored each others bodies in the most intimate way known to man. She knew that he had a dimple on his spine and a scar on the back of his knee; she knew that Elizabeth was fond of him and he of her and that if it not been for him, she would have become lonely long ago. 

 

“I know,” she said finally, unaware that a few people were watching their interaction with suspicious eyes, “I know.” 

 

Anne returned to watching Elizabeth and Charles left her side to go to the King. Anne watched the two men interact from the corner of her eye, her body slightly tensing. Suddenly aware of a few eyes on her, she snapped her head to the side to meet the people’s gazes, watching as a few people instantly looked away and others—like the Seymour’s— glare at her viciously. 

 

“Madame.” 

 

Anne blinked rapidly with surprise and turned to look at the french ambassador in front of her. 

 

“Your excellency,” she murmured, curtsying. “C’est un plaisir de te revere.” _It is a pleasure seeing you again._

 

“Likewise,” he responded, pressing a kiss to her hand. Anne observed him carefully, gently retracting her hand from his lips. “Have a pleasant evening,” is all he said, with understanding in his eyes as he walked away. “Merci Monsieur,” she echoed, even though he was too far now to hear her. 

 

Henry Brandon came up to her after that, with his father a few feet behind him. 

 

“Would you like to dance Madame?” he asked her shyly, his cheeks flushing a bright red. Anne met Charles’s gaze and raised her eyebrows at him before quickly nodding at the boy, for once a genuine smile gracing her features. 

 

**Charles POV**

 

He watched Anne dance with son, watching as she tossed her head back and laughed kindly at Henry’s actions, making his son giggle as well. He took a swing from his cup, trying to release the tension in his body. Henry had still not fully forgiven him but he was not as angry with him as before. That did not mean that he had yet been released from his charge at Pembroke— not that he necessarily wanted to be. 

 

Charles no longer minded it there, he was beginning to discover. More importantly, he was finding that he actually _wanted_ to be there. The only thing he truly missed was his son. 

 

Other than that, however. . .  

 

Charles did not let himself finish that sentence. 

 

He did not notice that Thomas Seymour stood beside him until he began to speak. 

 

“I had no idea that you and the Marquess were so close,” he commented lightly. 

 

Charles had had no qualms with Thomas beforehand, but at that moment he wishes to smack that taunting expression off of his face. 

 

“I am her charge per his majesty’s command,” is all he replied, taking another sip from his cup. 

 

“Oh how I hope the countryside has done you well.” 

 

“Thank you for your kind wishes Sir,” Charles muttered before brushing past him, unwilling to listen to him wine. 

 

He feels a pair of eyes on him and he turns around to watch see Anne watching him intently, a serious expression now painted on her features. 

 

They were treading on dangerous waters, with everything on the line. 

 

_xx._

 

They had been at court for three weeks when Anne caught wind of the rumours. 

 

“I heard that they’ve been lovers since before she was accused of adultery,” she hears one women whisper from around the corner. “Lady Anne and the Duke of Suffolk—“ 

 

Anne stiffens at the sound and rushes away from them, her heart racing in her chest. 

 

She finds Charles in the gardens with his son practicing archery, and he must recognise the slightly crazed expression on her face because he walks up to meet her. 

 

“There are rumours,” Anne tells him hurriedly, trying to mask her panic, “That we were—are— lovers and if Henry hears—“ 

 

“Damn,” he swore, “That damned Thomas Seymour has been sniffing around us like a dog. He’s been whispering in the King’s ear—“ 

 

Anne felt her heart drop. 

 

“Henry has heard these rumours?” she asked horrifiedly, “I am done for.” 

 

Charles scoffed and shook his head, “Thomas has been planning on having me sent back to my estates or reinstated at court and plans on having one his men become your charge and be the head of your household—“ 

 

“No,” Anne snapped, “Never.” 

 

“Do not worry,” he told her, “I think I have an idea.” 

 

—

 

Two days later, when they were in the great hall for the entertainment, Charles’s plan came to a halt. 

 

It was the Seymour’s —Anne was sure of it— that planted the idea into the King’s mind. As part of Charles’s plan, they were at opposite sides of the room from the other, with Anne sitting with her ladies and Charles flirting abashedly with some maiden. He had been making sure to bed plenty of them and made no attempt to hide his recent exploits from the court. Elizabeth had long since gone to bed and Anne had let herself drink more than she usually did. 

 

She watched Thomas Seymour (the Queen had not joined the festivities tonight, claiming illness) whisper something into the King’s ear from afar and when Anne caught sight of the dark expression on his face she felt a chill craw up her spine. _No,_ she thought desperately, her heart seizing in her chest, _please don’t—_

 

Henry rose from his throne and clapped his hands loudly, bringing the music to a sudden halt. 

 

“I wish to watch a Volta,” he commanded, his eyes flashing, “But since my precious Queen is not in good health and I have no desire to dance with another woman, I am unable to do such a dance.” There was a moment of tense silence before Henry called out, “Charles, show off your dancing abilities to the court—for your sake I hope they have improved since when you were a child!” Some people in the crowd chittered at the jest but Anne did not even crack a smile, watching as Charles made his way to the centre of the room. 

 

She closed her eyes, waiting: 

 

She remembered the last time she had danced a volta; it was the night when she had conceived her ill-fated son. It had been the first sign of passion and affection from Henry in months. 

 

“Lady Anne!” Henry called out, as if reading her mind, “I have not seen you dance yet since you arrived at court, what a splendid opportunity to show of your skills.” Anne exhaled before rising from her chair and making her way towards Charles, trying to ignore everyone’s stares. 

 

Anne clenched her jaw, trying her best not to do the same with her fists. She curtsied at Henry before doing the same to Charles, watching as he did the same. 

 

_Fine,_ she thought, _if he wants me to dance a Volta, I will._

 

“Gregory, play a volta!” Henry commanded, clapping his hands together. 

 

Almost instantly, the familiar music began to play. 

 

Anne took a deep breath, exhaling loudly and began the steps that she still knew by heart. 

 

Charles stood there, looking unsure for a moment— she remembered that he was not a very skilful dancer— and in a moment of bravery she reached forward and held his hands as she circled him, keeping his eyes on her own. _Just keep your eyes on me,_ she hoped her eyes conveyed, _just follow me._

 

They went around once and then back again, their movements quick and snappy. Anne moved away from him, though their eyes remained locked. _And one two three, one two three— go!_

 

Charles was prepared to lift her when she moved into his arms, his grip on her waist firm as he spun her around. It was dizzying, Anne noted faintly, staring into someone’s eyes whilst they span you around in the air. And yet it was strangely intimate. Anne remembered doing these very same movements with Henry— she recalled how everyone else had faded away, too consumed with his love and passion to care about anyone else. But now, everything was in sharp focus. Charles’s gaze was strong and unwavering and Anne was aware of everyone else but—but she felt _safe._ Protected somehow, as though his grip would protect her from all of those who wished to harm her. 

 

Anne nearly stumbled when he placed her down on the ground but she quickly regained her senses, allowing him to pull her body flush against his. _Sway to the left, then the right and then—_

 

He spun her away from his body with a surprising gentleness that she was sure only she felt and Anne was quick to turn around to face him once more. The dance was almost over and the music was loud and deafening in her ears. She circled him, her steps quick and flourished, the skirts of her red gown flapping around her. Charles reached for her once more and lifted her by the hips into the air, causing her to place her hands on his broad shoulders. He spun her around once, twice— Anne lost count but she remembered placing her hand on his cheek as he placed her down on the ground gently, panting softly. 

 

It was quiet. 

 

Deadly quiet. 

 

_Oh god,_ her mind whispered wildly, _he knows._

 

And then with great reluctance, she turned her gaze towards a very, _very,_ furious King. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Hey guys! This is the final part of you are my sweetest downfall! Thank you all for your tremendous support, it has meant so much to me and I am glad that so many of you are enjoying it. If any of you have any fic prompts that you would like to send me so that I could write for any of you and post them on here let me know! Thanks again you guys and I hope you all enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please review! Thanks :) 
> 
>  
> 
> Until next time, 
> 
> Fionakevin073

 

 

**Part 2: Resurrection**

_i._

 

Anne would look upon this moment with confusion, bitterness and thankfulness in the years to come. 

 

Anne had turned to look at Henry, stepping away from Charles as she did so, taking notice of how his cheeks were flushed red with anger, and how his jaw was locked and his hands were curled. 

 

“Majesty,” she murmured softly, curtsying, her heart hammering like a drum in her chest. She felt as though she were about to be sick. His eyes were like a wild storm, almost black. Anne could practically feel Henry’s fury and hatred roll off of him in waves, wrapping itself around her neck like two hands squeezing the life out of her. 

 

Charles bowed at Henry, his body tight. The room was still silent. No one said a word, waiting for Henry to explode. 

 

And just— 

 

Just as Henry took a breath took a breath to speak (yell or shout more likely) , Anne’s saviour came barreling into the court, his voice loud and shrill, “The Queen has collapsed your majesty! The physician needs to speak with you at once!” Gasps echoed across the room as the King’s eyes widened with shock, momentarily forgetting his rage. “Of course,” he said quickly, walking briskly across the room to where the man was, “Thomas, Edward, join me.” Anne heard the two Seymour brothers move from wherever they were in the room, but she did not remove her eyes from Henry, her breath caught in her chest. 

 

And just as Henry passed by them, he stopped and turned around to face Charles. “I will speak with you later,” he warned, before hurrying out of the room, everyone bowing or curtsying at his back. Anne let out a short breath of relief, shooting Charles a quick glance before moving away from him, eager to dispell any rumours of their affair. _No need to add wood to the flames,_ she thought bitterly, and began to follow the sea of people exiting the room, desperate to return to the privacy of her chambers. 

 

Charles does not stop her. 

 

_ii._

 

Anne remains in her chambers with Elizabeth the following day, practicing her embroidery. She watches Elizabeth embroider with a keen eye, unwilling to remove her gaze from her daughter. Anne was aware of the possibility that at any given moment, guards could come into the room with a warrant for her immediate arrest, and so whenever she did look away from Elizabeth, it was to cast a wary glance at the door. 

 

For hours they stayed that way until eventually there was a knock. 

 

Anne jumped in her seat, her heart in her throat. 

 

“Elizabeth,” she said softly, watching as one of her ladies went to see who it was, “Come here.” 

 

Her voice was calm for the most part, but even Anne could hear the slight hint of hysteria in her voice. Elizabeth obeyed her quickly, moving to stand in front of her. Anne moved so that she was now on her knees and held onto her daughter’s hands, pressing a kiss to each one of them. “I love you Elizabeth,” she says tenderly, reaching up to cup her daughter’s cheek, “And I am so very proud of you.” 

 

When the door opens, Anne rises to her full height, still holding onto one of Elizabeth’s hands. 

 

To her eternal surprise, however, there were no guards there to take her to the Tower. There was no raging Henry or smug Seymour with a warrant in his hands. There was only a messenger with a letter from Pembroke. 

 

“From Master Lewis your grace,” the messenger says, handing the letter over to Nan. 

 

“Thank you,” Anne replied, slightly floundered. 

 

She rips the letter open when he leaves the room, her eyes scanning over the words eagerly. 

 

_Dear My Lady Marquess,_ Master Lewis’s familiar handwriting said: 

 

_I do not wish to overtly alarm your grace, but it has come to our physicians attention that your youngest son William has caught a fever. He had begun to scream furiously into the night almost a week prior, but we thought that it was only a small cold or that he was merely missing his mother. The doctor says that it is not a major fever but that it might be advised. . ._

 

Anne had already told her ladies to begin packing her things. 

 

“Mama why?” Elizabeth cried out, her eyes widening. 

 

“Your brother William is sick sweetheart,” Anne told her hurriedly, causing Elizabeth to gasp with worry. “I must go and inform the King,” she murmured and stalked out of the room, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. Anne did not even notice the stares she received as she walked to the great hall, still in a slight state of shock. 

 

Though Anne did not notice that everyone was celebrating something either. 

 

It was only when she was bombarded by the sight of a brightly dressed court and smug looking Seymour’s did Anne realise that the King was celebrating something. Henry was sitting on his throne in the centre of the room, with a bright smile on his face as he listened to whatever it was that Thomas Seymour was whispering in his ear. Anne was too overwhelmed with worry and concern for her son to care about whether or not Henry was still angry with her— he could kill her if he wanted to, just as long as William did not die. 

 

_My poor William,_ her heart cried, _my darling boy. He needs me. Please God, let me go to him. Let him live._

 

The room grew hushed when she stopped in front of the steps that led to Henry’s throne, kneeling in front of him. 

 

“The Marquess of Pembroke!” a servant announced. Anne kept her head bowed throughout the exchange, clutching onto the letter tightly. 

 

“I hope you have heard the great news, Lady Marquess,” Henry called out happily, though there was a small hint of satisfaction in his tone. “The Queen is with child.”

 

It hurt. 

 

Anne would not deny that. 

 

But she had no time to worry about how she felt about the news— she had far more important things to worry about. 

 

_William William William William—_

 

“My deepest congratulations to you both,” Anne replied with surprisingly realistic enthusiasm, lifting her head to meet Henry’s slightly surprised features, “I hope that she will birth you a healthy son.” The words made her throat burn. Anne took a deep breath before continuing, inwardly sending a quick prayer to God as the words left her mouth. “Your majesty though it pains me to leave these joyful activities, I am here to ask for you to let me and our daughter Elizabeth return to Pembroke at once. My youngest son—“ her voice broke tinily, though Anne was quick to recover from it, “has gotten sick with a fever and my steward has informed me that the Doctor advises for me to return home incase—incase he dies.” Anne grew dizzy merely saying the words; the reality of such a situation would be far too painful for her to bare. She waited for Henry to respond, biting down tightly on her lower lip. 

 

Something changed in his gaze as he looked at her. Something in his appearance softened. 

 

“Very well,” he agreed softly, much to Anne’s relief, “You may return to your estates.” 

 

Anne’s smile was genuine as it spread across her lips. 

 

“I thank you deeply your majesty, and once again, my deepest congratulations to you both.” 

 

She stood from where she was on her knees, curtsying deeply before turning to leave the room. 

 

“But the Duke of Suffolk remains here until further notice.” 

 

Anne’s smile nearly slipped right off her face.

 

“Of course your majesty,” is all she said in return, turning around to face him and being sure to keep her smile on her face. “As you command.” 

 

And then she left the room in a hurry, eager to be return home and be with her sons. 

 

_iii._

 

Anne allows Elizabeth to go and say goodbye to her father before they leave and whilst she waits by the hastily packed carriage, a servant comes up to her, his face slightly flushed as he tells her, “The Duke of Suffolk wishes to see you before you leave, Lady Marquess. He said that it was urgent.” Anne frowns at his words, troubled before nodding. 

 

“Nan, if Elizabeth returns and I am still gone, prepare to leave for the moment I get back, is that understood?” Nan nods, bowing her head. 

 

Anne takes a deep breath and allows the man to escort her to Charles’s outer chambers— a public place, where others could see the interaction— and for just a moment, she acknowledges how _odd_ the request was. Why would Charles ask to see her, especially when they were under such scrutiny? More importantly, why would Anne agree? _You want to say goodbye,_ her mind whispered, _chances are, you may never see him again._ Anne did not attempt to understand _why_ her heart twisted at the thought and merely brushed her feelings aside, her mind chanting _William William William William._

 

She enters the outer hallway that led to Charles chambers (few others were there, but when Anne looked back on this incident later on in life, she noticed that there were people for Charles’s purpose) and just as the man was about to open the door for her to enter, the door opened itself, as if on cue. 

 

Anne could not have come at a more opportune time. 

 

For before the door could open, a flushed looking Jane Rochford exited Charles chambers, her hair ruffled and her clothes wrinkled. Anne stopped in her steps, her heart sinking to the bottom of her stomach. But besides that, her blood flared at the sight of her brother’s widow but other than that Anne felt more disgusted than angry. Anne’s eyes glared daggers into the sight of her head and the blonde woman gasped loudly at the sight of her, blushing to the roots of her hair. 

 

Anne’s gaze narrowed even more when Charles entered the room, looking disheveled. Anne heard the people in the hallway begin to whisper furiously when the Duke met her gaze, unashamed. _He planned this,_ Anne realised, _he knew._ Anne was not sure whether or not to be mad or glad and simply decided to avert her eyes and curl her lips with disgust. 

 

“I wished to say Farewell, Madame,” Charles said stiffly, keeping his gaze aloof. 

 

“Farewell Sir,” she replied emotionlessly, curtsying before walking away. 

 

She did not look back, even though a small, tiny part of her wished to look back at her friend one last time. When Anne eventually returned the carriage, Elizabeth was waiting inside it, looking eager to return home. She frowned when she noticed Anne’s stony expression and asked curiously, “Is the Duke of Norfolk coming home?” Anne felt something painful encircle her heart as she replied, “No, Elizabeth. He is not.” The door shut after her words and then, finally, thankfully, they began the journey home. 

 

_How strange,_ Anne thought as Elizabeth fell asleep, _I thought that I would not return home but in reality it was Charles who did not. Fate is a strange thing._

 

iv. 

 

It had taken them two days to reach London from Pembroke. 

 

Anne commanded the coachman to get them back to Pembroke in one, fear and worry making her go slightly mad. The coachman managed to do so,  and Anne immediately burst out of the carriage when the door opened, with Elizabeth at her side. She hastily greeted her assembled household and made her way into the castle, her heart running wild, echoing in her ears and rising in her throat. 

 

“How is he?” she asked Master Lewis shrilly, after he had begun to walk aside her, matching her quick, brisk steps. “His fever has slightly cooled, my lady Marquess, may I ask about your journey and stay at court—“ 

 

“Our journey was fine and our stay at court was. . . eventful, Master Lewis. Though your concern is touching I am more eager to discuss my sons. How is William? Where are George, Mark and Francis? Where is the physician?” Elizabeth winced at her slightly raised tone and Anne sighed loudly before releasing her hand and bent over to kiss the top of her head. “Go to bed darling,” Anne advised, “Take a nap.” 

 

“But—“ 

 

“Your brothers will be here when you wake,” Anne told her gently, catching Mistress Ashley’s eye from where she waited at the end of the hallway, “Mistress Ashley will get you ready for bed.” Elizabeth nodded warily and Anne smiled at her, effectively dismissing Elizabeth to her chambers. 

 

Anne waited until Elizabeth and Lady Ashley had disappeared before she talked again. 

 

“Where are they?” 

 

Master Lewis looked as though he had aged 10 years from the last time she had seen him, with dark circles evident around his eyes, giving him a haunted, tired look.

 

“The physician is with the rest of your sons in their nursery. Lord William has been kept in one of the guest rooms since his illness developed, for fear that the other boys may also catch the illness.” 

 

Anne’s heart crumbled in her chest and she felt faint, as though she were about to fall over. 

 

“Oversee the unpacking of the belongings we took to court,” Anne heard herself say faintly. Master Lewis nodded at her orders and bowed, signalling his departure. “Master Lewis,” Anne called out, stopping his steps. “Thank you.” He nodded in acknowledgement before leaving. 

 

Anne wasted no time in making her way to her sons nursery, where sure enough, Anne saw her sons in their cradles with Mark screaming wildly, as if recognising that she was home. Anne paid no head to the doctor and immediately rushed over to her sons, a smile wide on her face as tears pierced her eyes. 

 

“Shh my lovely,” Anne hushed, lifting Mark gently into her arms, cradling him against her chest, “Mama is here, shh shh.” Mark quietened almost instantly, cooing at her and grabbing at her hair with his small fists. “You’ve grown so big,” she said, her voice almost awe like. _I missed so much,_ Anne thought, _my poor boys._

 

After Mark began to fall asleep, she put him back before carefully picking up George and then after she had greeted him and marvelled at how much he had grown, she had replaced him with Francis, who was still wide awake and was blinking at her rapidly, his eyes an extraordinary shade of blue. 

 

“My own heart,” she murmured, smiling. 

 

That smile automatically dissolved when she heard the Doctor clear his throat. 

 

“Madame my name is Phillip and it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he bowed at her, his features taunt and serious. 

 

Uneasiness crept over her, making Anne wary. 

 

“Likewise, Doctor,” she said quietly, shifting Francis so that he was propped up by her hip. “How is he?” she asked quietly, desperation laced in her voice. 

 

_William William William—_

 

His name was a prayer in her mind and a ghost on her lips, making the whole world grow small and everything else seem so _tedious._ Instantly, she felt a tremendous amount of guilt and shame; Anne had been more concerned about making it out of London alive instead of being here with her sons. _I am so sorry,_ she thought miserably, pressing a kiss to Francis’s head. 

 

“He will live Madame,” the doctor said, causing a small, choked cry to escape her lips. She cleared her throat immediately, trying not to seem too emotional. “May I visit him?” Anne asked, her voice hopeful. The doctor smiled at her, not unkindly, and nodded. 

 

“And the rest of my boys? Are they well?” 

 

“They are in perfect health, Lady Marquess,” Philip told her, his old brown eyes filled with a paternal warmth that Anne had not seen in a long time. “Good,” Anne said, relieved. Anne gentle placed Francis next to his brothers, sending the now sleepy babes a kiss before turning to face Philip once more. “Thank you.” Anne’s thanks was genuine—perhaps the most genuine she had ever been in her life. “Name your reward and you shall have it.”  At the unsure expression on his face Anne added, “At least tell me when you think of one.” He nodded at her, smiling faintly once he realised that she had no intention of backing down. 

 

She cast one last glance towards three of her boys and then hurried to the room where they were keeping William. 

 

Anne was not sure what to expect. 

 

Her dreams had been plagued by images of William looking sickly and weak; with red skin and blood curling screams. But her boy, her youngest, handsome, precious boy merely looked small. His dark tuffs of hair were still the same on his head, except for the small bead of sweat that sparkled on his forehead. He looked fine. 

 

“Oh my own heart,” Anne whispered with relief, cradling him against her chest. He gurgled at her, his eyes an impossible shade of blue. “Have you missed me, my handsome boy?” she cooed, pressing a kiss to his forehead, “Because I missed you.” He started to cry slightly, causing Anne to rock him soothingly in her arms as she hummed a lullaby. 

 

“Mama is here now,” she says lovingly, “Nothing will ever hurt you or your other siblings, I swear it.” 

 

_v._  

 

William recovers quickly after they return to Pembroke, and soon enough he is sleeping again with his brothers in their large nursery, his illness having long since passed. It had been close to a month that they had returned home and there had been no word from court. 

 

_From Charles._

 

Elizabeth missed the Duke as well and had been saddened for close to a week when Anne had told her that Charles would most likely never be residing at Pembroke ever again. In truth, it saddened Anne as well, more than she ever thought it would, but she would not allow herself to be bothered by such emotions. 

 

Her focus was to remain on her children. She had already been sidetracked by the ongoings of court and had no desire to risk her life by returning to it ever again unless it was absolutely essential. She had no idea whether or not Henry would even care to see Elizabeth again since the Seymour girl was with child— or whether he would attempt to come and visit Pembroke to assess whether or not the boys were his. 

 

Despite her determination to no longer think of Charles, Anne admitted to herself in the darkest hours of the night while she lay in bed, restless, that she was lonely. More importantly that she missed _his_ company. It was different in the way that she had missed Henry once their marriage had begun to fall apart. Anne longed to be able to have a friend again; true, she had her ladies but they were not equals. They were there to serve her not to be her friends. Madge and Nan were the closest people she had to _friends._ She had Elizabeth and her boys as well as the members of her household, who were always warm and kind, but still, Anne was lonely. Anne felt. . . _useless_ almost. Elizabeth’s education was being well planned; Mary’s children had returned to her before they had gone to court and thus she did not need to keep an eye on them either. Her boys were too young for her to be concerned with such things. It was simple: Anne had nothing to do. 

 

Doctor Phillip noticed that and made good on his promise to inform her when he had come up with something for her to reward him with. 

 

“Doctor Phillip,” Anne greeted from where she sat, having been busy embroidering. The Doctor had stayed at Pembroke per her request, just in case William caught ill once more. Anne was not willing to take any risks with her son’s life. “My lady,” he said, bowing. 

 

“How may I help you Sir?” 

 

He shifted under her gaze, folding his hands together in front of him. 

 

“Madame a few fortnights ago you asked me to inform you if I thought of anything as my reward.” 

 

Anne blinked, unsure of where he was going with his speech. 

 

“Yes indeed I did Sir,” Anne replied, staring him straight in the eyes. 

 

The man looked uncomfortable under her gaze and cleared his throat loudly before continuing: 

 

“Madame the school in my village— for boys— burned to the ground not two years past. I have been struggling to raise the funds to have it rebuilt and—“ 

 

“You would like for me to sponsor you,” Anne finished, thinking the proposal over. 

 

“Indeed,” he agreed readily, “You would be credited of course, your grace and would oversee it’s construction if you wish.” 

 

It took several moments for Anne to respond. 

 

“Alright,” she said finally, a small smile painted on her lips, “Alright.” 

 

_vi._

 

Anne’s work with the reconstruction of the school busy’s her until the month of July. Anne had greatly enjoyed overseeing it’s construction, planning for it, and visiting the village to donate money to the poor. She had taken Elizabeth with her once— with numerous guards accompanying them of course— and had watched with delight as Elizabeth happily handed out some money and bread to the villagers. 

 

It was good to feel useful. 

 

Though Anne had to admit, now that summer had finally arrived and the gardens were in full bloom, it was nice to simply be with her children and have a picnic out by the water. She was dressed in a bright yellow gown  whose straps were loose on her shoulders, exposing her pale skin. Her hair was down and loose, her dark tresses moving slightly when a pleasant breeze hit. Anne was sitting on the large cloth that the servants had laid out for her and her children, with several pillows scattered across said blanket. She was covered by a shade that they had set up now that it was Summer, so that her, Elizabeth and the boys would not become lightheaded due to the warmth of the sun. 

 

Her boys were dressed in all white, except for the small ribbons that Elizabeth insisted remained tied to their small delicate wrists. They were in the elegant baskets that Anne had had made for them for such occasions, though George was now in her lap, his back against her breast as she watched Elizabeth play with her dog by the water. “Look at your sister!” She exclaimed playfully, watching as his eyes followed her every move, “Isn’t she beautiful?” At his slightly perplexed expression she laughed heartily, smiling widely at the sight of Elizabeth. “But do not worry my boy, you are beautiful in my eyes too.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead, her smile widening when he let out a loud pleased sound. Her ladies were also enjoying themselves as well; they were sitting a good distance away from her and children, as to give them privacy (in similar conditions that she was in) and Anne smiled at the sound of their laughter. 

 

It was a good day for them all. 

 

George was back in his basket when Elizabeth returned to sit with her, the skirts of her blue gown having been stained with mud. Her pup, which she had named Lady, barked happily as it sat a few meters from them, curling into a small ball. “Oh my darling girl,” Anne called out happily, opening her arms so that her daughter could run into them. “Look how big you’ve grown.” Anne marvelled at her daughter’s beauty, even at the age of three Anne could see that she would become one of the most breathtaking women in Europe. 

 

“I love you Mama,” Elizabeth chirped happily. 

 

Anne’s heart immeasurably swelled in her chest. 

 

“I love you too my darling Elizabeth and I bid you never forget it.” 

 

And they were happy. 

 

And then Anne saw something—someone out of the corner of her eye and suddenly became aware of how her ladies giggles had suddenly quietened. She turned her head toward the black clothed figure and gasped aloud at who it was. 

 

“Henry.” 

 

Elizabeth leapt out of her arms and onto her feet, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed with excitement. “Papa!” she exclaimed, hurrying over to Henry. The commotion caused the boys to wake from their nap with sharp cries, distracting Anne from the sudden change of events. “Shh my loves,” Anne hushed, slightly panicked and then nearly gasped with relief when her ladies showed up behind her, each one of them picking up the crying babes and rocking them in their arms. She sent them a look of gratitude and rose onto shaky legs, turning around so that she caught view of Henry swinging Elizabeth around in his arms. 

 

_Why is he here? Oh dear god will I ever be free of his wrath? Will he take me away from my babes?_ And then another thought struck her with terror: _Will he take my children away from me?_ Anne winced at the thought, before forcing her legs to move in Elizabeth’s direction, trying to rearrange her features into a neutral expression. “Your majesty,” she stated, her voice light as she curtsied, “What a pleasant surprise.” Anne was suddenly aware of her simple appearance: her gown was one of the simplest one’s she owned and had never worn in front of him before and she was wearing one of her older, worn pairs of slippers. 

 

She met Henry’s gaze with a forced smile, watching with a wary heart as he placed Elizabeth on the ground beneath them. 

 

“Is all well at court?” She questioned pleasantly, trying to calm the beating of her heart. 

 

“Everything is fine Madame,” Henry informed her, his blue eyes shining under the sun’s rays, “I embarked on a progress not too long passed and I realised that one of the castles that I was staying at was close to here and I wished to visit my daughter.” _And your sons,_ Anne wanted to add, but she knew that it was not wise. 

 

“I am sorry if I inconvenienced you in any way, Madame.” Though his words were apologetic, his tone was anything but. Henry was a King. 

 

“Of course not your majesty,” Anne assured him, her body relaxing when Elizabeth returned to her side, “I am merely surprised and ashamed that my home is not prepared for such a royal visit.” 

 

“You need not be.” 

 

Anne smiled forcefully at him and nodded her head slightly, to indicate that she would follow his command. His returning smile was thin lipped and insincere as he stared into her eyes for a few moments, before becoming distracted by the cries of one of her sons, which Anne recognised to be William. She closed her eyes tightly, sending a quick prayer to God that Henry would not become angry or irritated at her boys. 

 

“Forgive my son William for his cries your majesty,” Anne said apologetically, “He is not used to strangers.” Henry snapped his gaze back at her, his blue eyes wide as he nodded, though he did not act as though he had heard what she had said as though he were in some kind of trance. 

 

He moved past Anne and extended his hand to Elizabeth, causing her daughter to grasp onto it. Anne followed behind them warily, meeting Nan’s gaze over Henry’s shoulder. Her ladies stiffened at the sight of the King, trying to balance the squiggling babies in their arms. “Put them in their cradles,” Henry commanded. Her ladies shot her a quick glance and Anne nodded indirectly, causing them to obey the King’s orders without a word. William was still screaming at the top of his lungs and they all stood there awkwardly for such a long time that Anne could not bare it any longer. 

 

“Leave us,” Henry commanded, as Anne moved to William’s basket and picked him up gently, rocking him against her chest. “I’ll talk to you soon Elizabeth,” he said gently, leaning down to press a kiss onto her forehead. Anne heard her ladies and Elizabeth return to the castle and she shot Elizabeth a quick smile before she left, though she was preoccupied with trying to calm William, even though George, Mark and Francis were resting in their baskets quietly. 

 

“Shh, my love,” she whispered, her back slightly turned so that she was not facing Henry. William began to calm down eventually, his screams calming into whimpers. It was then that Anne shifted so that she was facing Henry once more, having the urge to step in front of her resting sons and shield him from his view. 

 

“Who is this lad?” he asked her softly, with a gentleness in his tone that Anne had not heard him direct towards her in a very, very long time. 

 

“William,” she answered hesitantly, “He is the youngest.” 

 

Henry nodded his eyes focused intently on the little boy in her arms. 

 

“He looks like you,” he told her, a small, genuine smile appearing on his lips. 

 

Anne let out a tiny amused sound— though she was still not fully comfortable in his presence— and replied, “He is the only one who received my hair colouring. The other boys look like—“ _you._

 

Anne’s cheeks flushed slightly as she corrected herself hastily, “Have Elizabeth’s colouring.” 

 

She had not said it outright but she had implied it: the boys were of Tudor blood. 

 

If Henry was angry with her for the implication, he hid it well. Instead, he moved over so that he was facing all three of the remaining baskets, with Anne by his side. He inspected the babes carefully but not harshly, and asked her quietly: 

 

“Which one is George?” 

 

Anne shifted William in her arms, careful to keep her voice gentle so as to not startle him. “He is the babe with the red ribbon your majesty,” She answered softly, “Elizabeth insisted that they keep wearing their ribbons so that she would never have any doubt as to who each one of her brother;s were.” Anne then looked down at William and smiled. 

 

“William is the only one whom was easily identifiable when they were first born because of his hair but Elizabeth insisted that he continue to wear his green as well, so that he did not feel left out.” Henry smiled as well at his— their— daughter’s antics. Silence formed after her words and she watched with a half-baited breath as he moved on the Mark. “And this is—“ 

 

“Mark, your majesty,” she replied quickly, observing as he fingered the ribbon adorned around his little ankle. “Mark,” he repeated, as though the name were in a foreign language and he was trying to pronounce it properly. “And then this must be Francis.” Anne was not sure whether that was a question or a statement. “Indeed your majesty, he is the quietest of them all.” Anne’s body tensed when he bent over and picked Francis up carefully and she watched with a wary eye as he lifted the boy in the air. William gurgled at her neck, his hands petting her dark curls. 

 

“They are my sons,” Henry declared. 

 

Anne was so shocked she almost dropped William. 

 

“I shall acknowledge them and provide for them. They are my healthy boys.” He cradled Francis to his chest before carefully replacing him with Mark and then George. “And this is my eldest son. My precious boy.” He pressed a kiss to the side of his forehead, causing George to let out a loud, pleased sound. “He knows his father,” Henry commented lightly, almost as if he was in awe of them. Though Anne was relieved that he was acknowledging them and realising the truth, some bitterness and anger swelled in her chest, making her throat close. _They could have been your heir’s,_ she wanted to hiss at him, _my—our— precious, beautiful, lovely boys could have been princes and Kings if it were not because of you. Our daughter Elizabeth is the brightest girl in the whole of England and you took her crown away from her too._

 

Henry did not notice the anger stirring within her. 

 

He placed George back in his basket and turned to look at her. 

 

“Let me see my youngest son,” he asked her, not unkindly. 

 

Anne did not want to let go of him but nonetheless she carefully transferred William into his arms and nearly smiled when her boy immediately started to scream at the top of his lungs. 

 

“He is a fine weight,” Henry told her over his screaming. 

 

“And with strong lungs, your majesty,” Anne replied in jest. 

 

He let out a small laugh and put William back into her arms but not before placing a kiss on his head. Anne’s eyes widened with surprise when his hand touched her elbow in a loose hold. “Thank you Lady Anne,” he said genuinely, “For giving them to me.” 

 

_I didn’t do it for you._

 

“My children are my world and my heart, your majesty,” is all she said in turn. Henry’s eyes looked glazed over with tears as he turned to stare at the other three boys once more. “The Queen shall give them and Elizabeth a brother and when they are older, they can be his companions.” Anne felt physically ill at the thought. 

 

“As your majesty wishes.” 

 

There was a moment before he said anything. 

 

“I have to leave soon, Lady Marquess and I wish to say farewell to Elizabeth and then return her to you. I must continue on my progress.” 

 

“You must leave so soon?” 

 

“Yes,” Henry admitted, though he did not look eager to be parted from their children, “There is some business that I must take care of as King.” 

 

“Of course your majesty,” Anne said, trying to brush away the small sliver of disappointment that had formed. It was odd; she wanted him to leave but at the same time she also wanted him to stay. She desired for him to leave their children alone and yet she wanted him to be their father and acknowledge them. She hated him and she love—

 

_No,_ Anne told herself firmly, _no._

 

“I shall send you some presents in not two months passed,” Henry informed her, “Some for Elizabeth, many for the boys and a gift for you.” 

 

“Your majesty that is not necessary—“ 

 

“It is, Marquess Anne,” Henry interrupted shortly, “I have not been a father to my sons since they have arrived on this Earth and I fully intend on making up for it now.” 

 

And though his words are kind and full of love for his children, Anne is suddenly reminded of a very different time. 

 

_For the love of Elizabeth have mercy!_

 

_No! I loved you! I loved you! And I love you still!_

 

_Your majesty I beseech you!_

 

“Of course your majesty,” Anne says faintly, sounding distracted even to her own ears. 

 

And then shortly afterwards, Henry leaves to say goodbye to Elizabeth and by the time her daughter returns to her and her brother’s, Anne wondered as to whether or not it had simply been a dream. 

 

_vii._

 

True to his word, by mid August, numerous gifts arrive for Elizabeth and the boys. From dresses to books to toys to new sheets, Anne and Henry’s children were lavished upon. Henry had sent so many presents in a single day than most royal parents gifted their children in an entire year. It made Anne both happy and wary to see him pay so much attention to their children, and he had requested that she sent him weekly reports of their wellbeing, so that he was informed and involved with their upbringing. 

 

“Papa has not sent you a gift Mama,” Elizabeth pointed out, looking troubled. 

 

“That’s because he wanted to show his love for you and your brothers Elizabeth,” Anne told her kindly, smiling slightly. Anne remembered what Henry had said: he said that he would give her a gift but Anne was worried as to what it was. _Perhaps it would be a chopping block and an executioner,_ she pondered grimly, though she was careful to keep a smile plastered to her face so as not to upset Elizabeth. 

 

And then finally, after all the boxes and chests had been opened, the messenger who had brought them the gifts handed her a letter from Henry. 

 

_Dear Lady Marquess Anne of Pembroke,_ Henry’s familiar scrawl wrote: 

 

_You have given me sons, just as you had promised long ago. Not only that but you have given me a beautiful, intelligent daughter and despite all the ill that has happened between us, I no longer wish for you to be unhappy or to undergo any harm. Our history is long and painful Anne but there had been a time when I had loved you with my every breath and I would like to think, that looking back on it now, despite your actions, that you cared for me during those first few years. Your love for our children is undoubtable._

 

_Thus I conclude that despite. . . ._

 

Anne read the rest of the letter hurriedly, her mind warring with various thoughts and feelings. 

 

_He truly believes that I am guilty, he thinks that I never loved him—_

 

And then there was also, _Charles, Charles, your friend Charles he is—_

 

As if on cue, Master Lewis entered the room and bowed before telling her, “Madame there has been a rider with a small guard of men seen heading this way, shall I raise the guards—“ 

 

“No,” Anne said sharply, a small smile on her face as she rose from her chair, letting the letter fall to the ground. 

 

“It is the Duke of Suffolk.” 

 

“Uncle Charles is returning home?” Elizabeth asked excitedly, her eyes wide with amazement. 

 

“Yes he is,” Anne said, laughter in her voice, “He really is.” 

 

— 

 

Anne does not go to greet him at the front of the house when he arrives, leaving it to Elizabeth, Master Lewis, her ladies and Lady Ashley to greet the Duke. Anne remained in her apartment, reading a book. Or at least attempting to read one. She had re-read the same passage four times and then on the fifth, she finally gave up and shut the book closed just as the door opened and Charles walked into the room. He halted in his steps at the sight of her and Anne rose slowly, her heart beating frantically in her chest. She remembered how cold their farewell had been; how formal and restricting. She recalled how he had looked at her coldly when she had caught sight of Jane Rochford and then she was suddenly unsure of how to greet him. 

 

Her lips parted as she stared at him, her heart sighing with relief once she noticed that his appearance had not changed over the last few months they had spent apart. 

 

“Your grace,” Anne greeted quietly. 

 

“Lady Marquess,” he returned in kind. 

 

There was a beat, a moment before the tension broke. 

 

Anne let out a relieved gasp and hurried over to him as Charles extended his arms out so she could barrel into them. His arms fastened around her waist tightly as hers encircled his shoulders. “You’re alright,” she said, her voice muffled from where she had buried her face on his chest. He pressed a kiss to her forehead in response. “I’m alright,” he repeated, his voice light. Anne felt as though she were floating. “And the boys— Henry acknowledged them in front of the whole court. You should have seen the look on the Seymour’s faces—“ 

 

“I don’t want to talk about them right now,” Anne said, pulling back slightly so they could stare each other in the face and raised her hand so that it was touching his cheek. “I do not want them to ruin this.” He smiled at her in understanding, and then bent down so that their foreheads were touching each other. They breathed the same breath; their hearts beat as one as they held onto one another, pleased to be in each other’s presence once more. Charles leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers gently, taking her breath away. Anne pulled back slightly, a smile forming on her face when she caught sight of his own one. She was the one to lean forward this time and press their lips together, sighing loudly at the familiar sensation. It was already dark by the time Charles had arrived and Anne had given explicit instructions for Elizabeth to go to bed after she had finished greeting the Duke and had dismissed her ladies for the night.

 

They stumbled a few steps back as their kisses grew harder, Charles leading them from the outer apartment to her bed chamber. Her hands worked quickly on untying the laces of his doublet and he worked on undoing the laces of her gown. They parted, staring at each other with wide eyed expressions before falling back into each other. 

 

_viii._

 

It is the next day that they walk together in the gardens, catching up with each other. His son Henry had arrived at Pembroke after his father because he had travelled all the way from his estates, having returned to his home whilst his father stayed at court. Charles told her of the ongoings of court, how Jane Seymour had been very ill due to her pregnancy and how the King had taken a mistress. 

 

“How fitting,” Anne had commented wryly, causing Charles to roll his eyes at her. 

 

Anne told him of William and his illness and how she had helped with the reconstruction of the school. Then she told him of how Henry had come to Pembroke for only a few hours and had declared himself to be the father of her son’s. 

 

“It was odd,” Anne recalled, “I had never seen like that. His eyes had teared up as though he could not. . .” 

 

Anne sighed loudly, unsure of what to say. 

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Henry cry,” Anne confessed, looking anywhere but at him. 

 

Charles disentangles their arms and lets Anne walk ahead of him slightly, a slight breeze ruffling the skirts of her gown. 

 

“He cried over you.” 

 

Anne stopped, feeling as though a bucket of ice water had been poured over her. 

 

Something sad and heavy sighed in her chest as she waited for him to finish. 

 

“When he was first told about the charges against you by Cromwell— and after he told Henry that they were supposedly true, he sobbed. It was as though his heart had been torn out of his chest.” 

 

Anne shifted unsteadily, feeling her eyes grow uncomfortably wet. 

 

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked quietly, turning her head so that she could observe him. Charles looked resigned as he stared back at her, before shrugging. 

 

“I don’t know,” he confessed. 

 

Anne blinked at him; once, twice, her eyes blurring with tears. It was not long before he embraced her, cradling her head in the crook of his neck. “I do not know how to stop,” she whispered frustratedly, “I wish I could. Oh God—“ she let out a shaky breath against his skin. 

 

“Sometimes matters of the heart can not be explained, Anne,” is all he said, running a gentle hand through her locks. 

 

Perhaps he was right, Anne thought miserably, perhaps she was doomed to love a man she hated forever. 

 

— 

 

Later, they watch Elizabeth and his son play with the boys in the garden. 

 

The sun is high in the sky and there is a slight breeze in the air. 

 

Anne feels different now, lighter almost. 

 

“We will be happy,” she says quietly, holding onto one of his hands. 

 

He smiles at her from the corner of her eye. 

 

“We will,” he agrees. 

 

And they were— 

 

But not for as long as they hoped. 

 

_ix._

 

Jane Seymour dies in early October due to going into labour too early and because of the complications that arose because of it. 

 

Because of said complications, her child died as well. 

 

It was a son. 

 

Anne does not go to court during the mourning period but she sends Charles and Elizabeth in her stead and writes a letter to Henry offering him her deepest condolences. 

 

One month later each of her boys say their first word. 

 

For every single one of them, it is Mama. 

 

They begin to take their first steps in the mid November, shortly after their first birthday. 

 

Henry had travelled to Pembroke for the day to be with their sons, aware of the fact that they were too young to travel the journey to London. Anne had asked Charles to visit his son on his estates, unwilling to tempt Henry’s rage. Henry is quiet as he held them, his expression all the more solemn due to his black clothing. 

 

And as the books say, life moved on. 

 

Her and Charles stayed at Pembroke with Elizabeth and her sons and Henry visited once every so often. She corresponded with Mary frequently and rejoiced at the news that her sister was once again with child. 

 

And her life was good and happy and _simple._

 

Except for one single occurrence. 

 

Thomas Boleyn visits her shortly after Charles had returned to Pembroke. The sky is dark and gloomy when he arrives at Pembroke, with no announcement or no word of his journey there. 

 

He had not written to Anne once since she had been released. 

 

Anne listens to his speech with a coldness that she did not know she possessed. She can feel Charles grow angry beside her but she merely feels tired and _void._ Her eyes pierce into her father’s, those dark eyes of hers that he had once said were like dark hooks for the soul were staring at her father with neither love or compassion. 

 

“You will leave at once,” Anne told him indifferently, “I never wish to see you again. You are no father of mine— you stopped being my father long ago. I ask of you to leave and never come back.” He had stared at her with bewilderment, at first begging for her forgiveness and then bargaining before growing angry with her, calling her selfish and a disgrace for a daughter. 

 

Charles had taken a hold of him and shoved him against the wall, his expression furious. He whispered something into her father’s ear that Anne could not ear but had a profound affect on him, as his face turned white. 

 

“Anne—“ 

 

“Leave. Now.” 

 

He died approximately two weeks after he returned home. 

 

Anne did not attend the funeral. 

 

(Anne began to identify that day as the day that everything began to change) 

 

_x._

 

_June 1538 Pembroke Castle_

 

The Pilgrimage of Grace had ended and the leaders had been captured. 

 

Charles had written from court to tell her of the end of the rebellion— he had been summoned to court by Henry to help him fight the rebels and Anne had spent two months worried sick, prepared to leave Pembroke if the rebels ever came near the castle. Fortunately for them, they did not but Anne was still incredibly worried that Henry would succumb to the pressure and make Mary 1st in line. 

 

He had no _legitimate_ children according to his laws and Charles had written to her that Thomas Cromwell had been trying to marry Henry off to some German Duchess. Cromwell had been walking on shaky legs recently, as the King blamed him for the uprising. It made Anne want to laugh slightly; the argument that had put Anne at odds with Cromwell is what is leading to his undoing, the same way he had sought hers. 

 

“Mama!” George exclaimed excitedly, smiling wildly at the sight of her. His brothers followed in suit, stumbling on their little toddler legs as they ran over to her. Anne crouched down and extended out her arms so that she could hug all of her boys. She smiled apologetically at Lady Bryan (Henry had ordered Lady Bryan to come to Pembroke since there was no use for her over at Pembroke and she was now her boys keeper) over George’s shoulder, who smiled in turn. Elizabeth was taking her more advanced lessons with Lady Ashley in the study next door and though Anne wished to visit her daughter, she did not want to interrupt her studies and concentration, knowing that Elizabeth had just begun to learn Greek in addition to French. 

 

“How are my angels this morning?” she asked, pressing kisses to each of their cheeks. 

 

“Good Mama!” William told her, hugging her longer than his brothers. 

 

“Is that so?” She asked the rest of them, smiling when she saw Mark and Francis nod eagerly with George. 

 

“Good,” she declared, giving them her undivided attention. 

 

Her boys had grown much over the past year, no longer needing ribbons to identify whom was who any longer. George was the split image of Henry, with his reddish gold locks and blue eyes. Mark and Francis were the brothers who resembled each other the most; with Henry’s mothers colouring and his eyes but her nose and mouth. William however, had grown into the split image of her. From his dark locks to the colour of his eyes, William was the male version of her appearance. George was the leader of the small band of brothers, fancying himself to be a valiant knight and a hero. Mark was more demure than his brother and more interested in knowledge and books but he had inherited Henry’s temper. Francis remained the quietest of her son’s, following his brother’s and offering ideas in a quiet tone. William was the more mischievous of them all; he was the planner of the boys adventures and George was the one who lead them on it. The brain and the heart, Anne sometimes thought. 

 

Anne leaves them after a short while and goes to her study to where she had left an unopened letter from Mary. They had been planning for them to come and visit with Mary’s newborn son, whom she had called Robert. It was about time that her other children also arrived at Pembroke for their lessons. Mary had been unwilling to let them travel so far whilst the rebellion was ongoing, which was a feeling Anne understood. 

 

To Anne’s surprise however, Master Lewis was standing in her study along with an old woman with grey hair, who looked vaguely familiar. 

 

“I apologise for not warning you of this woman’s presence Lady Marquess,” Master Lewis told her apologetically, “But she just arrived and she said she had met you before—“ 

 

“You are Doctor Phillip’s wife,” Anne recalled, remembering the woman from the time she had met her briefly a year prior. 

 

“Indeed I am Lady Marquess,” the woman said, curtsying clumsily. 

 

“May I ask why you are here?” Anne questioned politely, folding her hands together in front of her. 

 

The woman— Alice, Anne believed her name was, shifted uncomfortably and it was then that Anne noticed the hard lines of grief and stress that were evident on her face, that had not been there a year before. 

 

“Lady Anne. . . when the rebellion started, some of the rebels stormed through certain villages and forced many of the men to follow them against the King, by threatening them with death or violence or worse. My husband was treating some of the wounded in one of the villages where the rebels were most prominent and they threatened him into treating their wounded by taking a hold of our son, whom had travelled with his father in order to learn his trade. Now, he is to be executed by the King for assisting the rebels and I come here today to beg of you to save him. Please, Lady Anne. My husband will die a painful death— hanging and quartering and I do not even know where my son is—“ She was on her knees now in front of her, trying not to cry. 

 

Anne was moved— she was. She desperately wanted to help them she did, but Anne was still wary not to get on Henry’s bad side, for fear of the consequences. Despite the massive improvements that had occurred over the past year, Anne still feared that Henry would someday change his mind and take their children away from her or have her executed. Asking him for mercy for a man he believed to have conspired with those who rebelled against him was a near death sentence but still— 

 

Doctor Phillip was a kind, innocent man who had saved William from death. 

 

He did not deserve to die for a crime he had not committed. 

 

And Anne understood the wife’s feelings; she had been in her position before, powerless to help a loved one when they were faced with death. 

 

She would not wish that on anyone. 

 

“Alright,” she says finally, her voice firm, “Alright.” 

 

_xi._

 

Anne had debated on whether or not to take the children with her to court. On one hand, it may make Henry’s mood better and be more willing to listen to what she had to say. On the other however, Henry might think that she was using her children as a bargaining chip; as a tool to control him. Additionally, if Henry grew angry with her and ordered her arrest and/or execution, Anne had no desire for them to witness such a thing. And so, she reluctantly decided to leave without them. She left for London about a week after Alice had visited, her heart heavy in her chest after she had said farewell to Elizabeth and the boys. It was the first time she had parted from them for more than a day since she and Elizabeth had gone to London last April. 

 

It filled her with anxiety but Anne knew that it had to be done. _Besides,_ she reassured herself, _she was not planning on staying for very long._

 

It was moments like these where Anne wondered how she had been able to bare having Elizabeth live and be raised at Hatfield instead of with her. The journey to London was relatively smooth and Anne arrives there two days after leaving Pembroke, this time without Elizabeth by her side. She feels her absence tremendously as she climbs out of the carriage. Unlike the last time Anne was court, this visit was sudden and unannounced and this time there are no crowds here to greet her. _It hasn’t changed at all,_ she thought grimly. Not even after Jane Seymour’s death. 

 

A servant came up to her, looking wide eyed and startled at her appearance. She gave him instructions and watched as he fumbled for a moment, before leaving some guards with her carriage and belongings before escorting her to be received by the King. Anne’s heart was beating so loud she was sure that the servant could hear it. She felt as though her body was trembling due to the sheer force of it. Anne saw people gasp at the sight of her once she was led into the crowded room and the crowd parted immediately at the sight of her. 

 

“The Marquess of Pembroke the Lady Anne Boleyn. Mother to the King’s daughter Elizabeth and his sons George, Mark, Francis and William and is here to request an audience with the King.” 

 

Anne caught sight of Charles next to Henry, her heart leaping to her throat at the sight of him standing there, looking healthy. _What are you doing here?_ He asked with his eyes. Anne looked away from him so that she could observe Henry instead. Henry was surprised to see her there, that was evident but he did not look displeased. 

 

“Welcome to Court, Marquess Anne,” Henry greeted, his voice pleasant enough, “How are the children?” 

 

She saw Mary flinch out of the corner of her eye from where she stood in the crowd. 

 

“Our children are very well, your majesty and are in good health.” 

 

“And yet they did not join you on your journey? I must say this is a rather great surprise to see you here.” 

 

“I apologise for my hastiness,” she said formally, keeping her tone pleasant, “But I had to make the quick journey here to see your majesty and talk to him of an urgent matter.” 

 

“What urgent matter?” Thomas Cromwell asked from the other side of Henry. 

 

Anne’s gaze grew cold at the sight of him, hatred boiling in her belly. “Master Cromwell I mean no disrespect when I say that I would like if the King consulted in this matter.” His jaw tightened at her words. She had not seen him while she was last at court because he had been sent on some diplomatic mission of sorts, much to her relief. Anne had not been in his presence since he informed her that the King planned on sparing her life. 

 

“Very well, Lady Anne,” Henry declared, his eyes piercing into the side of her face, “What urgent matter brought you to court on such short notice?” 

 

Anne took a deep breath, her nervousness making it difficult for her to breathe. 

 

She knelt in front of the steps that led to Henry’s throne, her dark red gown in a pool beneath her. Her ladies followed suit. 

 

“When I was last at court your majesty, if you recall m— our son William grew ill with a serious fever that required me to return home immediately with Elizabeth in case he died.” Even now, it was a difficult thought to bare let alone voice aloud. Henry also winced at her words, clearly uncomfortable at the thought of William dying or he was remembering the death of his precious Seymour and her babe. “There was a Doctor, an elderly man called Philip who nursed him back to health and saved him from death. I was recently informed by his wife that he had been forced under duress to help some of the leaders in the rebellion, and nurse some of the rebels back to health. I am here to plead for mercy your grace, he is an old man who has done no wrong—“

 

“No wrong?” Cromwell questioned sharply, “He aided the leaders of the rebellion that questioned the King’s actions and wished to overthrow him. He nursed and helped several of their soldiers— soldiers whom I am sure murdered some of the King’s men— back to health so that they could continue with their plot! If that is no crime in your eyes Madame, I would hate to see what you _do_ consider to be wrong.” 

 

“His son was captured by the rebels when he travelled to a village to help treat some of the sick,” Anne shot back, “The rebels threatened to murder his _son_ if he did not help. His only child would have been killed Master Cromwell. By no means do I agree with the end result of his actions but I understand why he succumbed to their threats.” Her gaze returned Henry now, who was watching her with an aloof expression. “Your majesty,” she said, more quietly now so as to highlight her desperation, “If it had been you in his position and he had threatened one of our sons or our daughter— one of your precious children, would you not have done the same?” 

 

Silence followed after her words. Cromwell shot the King several glances before looking back at her, his eyes narrowing into slits. Charles watched her with a clenched jaw as well, clearly uneasy with her asking that of the King. _One two three four five. Elizabeth George Mark Francis William Elizabeth George Mark Francis William_ her mind chanted, trying to cal herself down. 

 

“Very well,” Henry decided, “I will let him return home.” Anne smiled brightly, the weight of the world being lifted off her chest. “Thank you your majesty,” she told him, “Thank you.” He nodded at her, a swirl of emotions lingering in his eyes as he motioned for her to stand. 

 

“Your Majesty if I may—“ 

 

“No you may not Master Cromwell,” Henry interrupted sharply, causing Anne to stiffen with shock. _So this is what Charles meant by Henry become unsatisfied with Cromwell._ “I am letting an innocent man go home to his wife and his son. A man whom also happened to save one of my own.” 

 

Cromwell grew quiet, his face turning pale. 

 

_Let him experience the same fear that I felt,_ Anne thought bitterly. 

 

_xii._

 

But Anne should have known. Cromwell is the kind of man who will strike his enemy where they are weakest and so when Anne has been court for two days Thomas Wyatt arrives at court. Anne had been watching the dancing from where she sat at the high table next to Charles— two seats over from Henry, apparently being the mother of his sons gave her the ‘right’ to do so— when she caught sight of him staring at her. She let out a loud, startled breath, her eyes growing wide. Charles followed her gaze and found who she was looking at and turned to look at her with concern. 

 

Anne couldn’t breathe. 

 

All she could picture was her brother being beheaded along with Mark, William, Henry and Francis. All she could think that while they were dead, their bodies rotting in the ground, the only one whom was guilty of having touched her was alive and she had not even been married to Henry when that had happened, though their courtship had just begun. Speaking of which, Henry had left the table so that he could greet some diplomat of sorts and so Charles was free to ask: “Anne, are you alright?” 

 

She didn’t reply for several moments and instead turned her head so that she could stare at him in the eyes. 

 

“He’s the only one who was guilty,” she murmured, fingering her necklace. 

 

Charles did not have to ask to know what she was referring to. 

 

“The only one. . .” Anne scoffed gently at her words and rose from her chair, unable to bare being in the room any longer. 

 

She did not miss Cromwell’s calculating look at the exchange between her and Charles. 

 

But Anne had been smarter this time around. To eliminate any suspicion that she had Charles or some other lover visit her chambers, Anne had commanded that two of her ladies sleep on mats on either side of her bed, another by the foot and the fourth beside her, so that if they were under oath they could testify that Anne had never slept with any man under Henry’s roof. Anne did not interact with Charles if she could help it—unless Henry put them in a position where they had no choice, such as now. It would seem that people did not forget that he _had_ indeed slept with her brother’s widow. Anne had understood why he had done it and Charles had apologised for it but no one else needed to know that. If Cromwell was trying to ruin her by suggesting that she _was_ sleeping with Charles, he would be hard pressed to find any evidence. 

 

But little did Anne know, Cromwell did not seek to ruin her relationship with Henry; he had done all the damage he could do there. No, Cromwell wanted to weaken her, to make her feel completely alone at court so she would return home. He feared her influence over Henry; her desire for revenge after everything that had happened to her and her family. 

 

And he had just the right information to do it. 

 

Anne had been in the apartment of her chambers, writing a letter to Mary when Master Cromwell was led into the room. 

 

“Cromwell,” Anne greeted shortly, not rising from her chair to greet him. 

 

“Lady Marquess,” he returned, standing right in front of her desk. 

 

“How may I help you on this fine day Sir?” 

 

Cromwell did not answer her question, instead choosing to respond with another. 

 

“Are you writing to your children?” He asked cooly, avoiding her gaze. 

 

Anne narrowed her eyes at him, not in the mood for his games. 

 

“No, my sister Mary,” she corrected, a slight hint of defensiveness in her voice. Cromwell noticed and seized on it; 

 

“I suppose that your children are doing well,” he continued, “It must be hard for them to be so far from their father and to see him so little. Though I suppose it is not so bad considering they have their Uncle Charles to keep them company.” 

 

“What do you want Master Cromwell?” she asked, her voice hard. 

 

“Nothing,” he replied, raising his hands innocently, “I was merely surprised that Charles could stomach being around them or you for that matter, considering that he—“ 

 

At Anne’s frown, he raised his eyebrows in triumph. “Ahh, so he did not tell you. How surprising. I knew that he was capable of lying but. . . being cruel? I never suspected that of him.”

 

“Stop talking in circles and get to the point—“ 

 

“I was merely wondering how you could allow you and your children to grow so close to the man who informed the King eagerly of your crimes, Lady Anne. I must admit, I was astonished at your powers of forgiveness, considering how insistent he was that your brother be charged with incest. Surely you must have put it together, Madame, you are incredibly intelligent after all.” 

 

Anne merely sat there, speechless. 

 

_How could you not have known? How how how how how how how how how how how—_

 

“You’re lying,” Anne said faintly, glaring at Cromwell. 

 

He smiled at her, though it was without warmth. 

 

“Go home Lady Anne,” is all he said before walking out of the room. 

 

When her ladies re-enter the room after he leaves, Anne says: 

 

“Tell the Duke of Suffolk to come here and tell him that it is urgent.” 

 

_xiii._

 

When Charles arrives, Anne is still sitting at her desk, trying to comprehend the various emotions that were blooming inside her. 

 

“Anne?” he asked concerned, “What is it?” 

 

Anne rises from her chair slowly and does not look at him, for fear that if she did she would either scream and cry or hit him. 

 

“I do not know how I never put it together before,” she whispered, something heavy and horrible spreading through her chest, tying around her neck like a noose. “ _How_ could I have not known? How?” 

 

“Anne what are you talking about—“ 

 

“You know what!” She spat at him, her eyes wide and full of rage, “The charges against me were your fault.” 

 

Charles paled instantly, his mouth opening with shock. 

 

_Oh God it’s true. Oh dear God._

 

Anne nearly collapsed but instead she let out a hysterical laugh and moved towards him, anger making her blood boil. 

 

Anne slaps him across the cheek with all her might. She puts all of her pain, anger and hurt into it and watches with satisfaction when his cheek already began to bruise. He stays like that and does not move, letting her enact her rage on him, which only served to infuriate her further. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” Anne snapped angrily, shoving him with all her strength so that he moved back a few paces, startled by her actions. “You monster!” she hissed, slamming her hands against his chest, “How—how could you?” 

 

Anne felt as though she could no longer breathe due to her rage. Due to the hate that had sprung in her heart and taken over her body. “My brother is dead because of _you—_ Mark is dead. Innocents are dead. I almost died!” 

 

“I know,” Charles kept on whispering, “I know.” 

 

“Elizabeth was almost left without a mother. My _sons_ would have been killed with me!” 

 

“I know.” 

 

“Say something other than that you coward!” Anne yelled, hitting him. Charles finally began to try and calm her down by attempting to grab her wrists so as to stop her onslaught of abuse. “Ah!” Anne said, as though he had burned her, “No! No no no no no no!” Anne backed away from him, tears spilling down her face furiously, causing her anger to grow twice fold. He followed her trying to trap her against his chest as though she were some wild animal he was trying to tame. “Don’t you touch me!” She hissed. “Ah! no no no no no no God!” He wrapped his arms around her stomach from behind and clutched her to his chest, so that her back was flushed against him. “Don’t cry,” he begged, “Please do not cry. Stop it! “ And then more gently, “Stop.” 

 

“Let go of me!” Anne raged, thrashing against his hold, “I never want to look at you! I can not bare your touch! Let go of me!” 

 

He let her go, albeit reluctantly and watched with a solemn yet pleading expression as she told him, “I never want to see you again. I never want to be near you again. I— I—“ she let out a breath and swiped at her eyes, unable to stand looking at him with that desperation in his eyes. “My god how could you?” She asked, her heart breaking in her chest as she bit down tightly on her lower lip to stop her sobs from escaping her lips. 

 

“I never meant for that to happen,” he said quietly, as though he were a child, “I merely wished for him to divorce you—not to— not to kill you or the others. He was never meant. . . I never meant for that to occur but by the time I realised just how bad Cromwell was making it seem, it was too late. Henry was already convinced that you had betrayed him with every man you had met while you were with him—“ 

 

“I do not want to hear your lies,” Anne interrupted, finally having reached a sense of calm. “You are a liar and a murderer. Now if you would your grace, get out of my chambers.” 

 

“Anne—“ 

 

“Get. Out.” 

 

Charles left without a word, leaving Anne completely and utterly alone. 

 

_xiv._

 

Anne leaves court a week later with Doctor Phillip by her side. 

 

Charles does not come back with her. 

 

As a matter of fact, Anne does not see Charles again until January of 1539. He had not returned to court from his estates for Elizabeth’s or the boys birthday celebrations, despite the lavish festivities that Henry had thrown in their honour. Anne is glad of it too. Mary had visited with her husband and children and had calmed her slightly, reminding Anne that Charles was a good man who made a mistake but all that served was to rip the wound open again. 

 

Charles returns to Pembroke when snow is falling heavily on the ground. Anne had heard that he had been sent to observe Henry’s new bride and escort her back to England but other than that news of him was scarce. Elizabeth and the boys ran up to greet him, laughing and smiling at the sight of their beloved uncle. Anne is too tongue tied to say anything, and observes him with cold eyes, waiting for her children and her ladies to leave the room. 

 

“I know that you are angry,” he told her hesitantly, “And you have every right to be. I just. . . before I left I wanted to see you again, in case I do not return and I wanted to apologise. I know that I have no right to ask for your forgiveness so all I am going to say is that I love you. I am in love with you. I thought that I loved my previous wives Mary and Katherine but I do not think that I have ever loved anyone until you. Not truly. You are kind and passionate and selfless and giving and I am so sorry that I let my hatred for the men in your family extend to you. I—I know better now. I know that it is not enough to change what happened but. . . I love Elizabeth, George, Mark, Francis and William as though they are my own. I would kill for them and for you— I would die if it meant protecting them and you from harm. And Anne if you would just let me I will spend the rest of my life serving you, as though you were my Queen.” He knelt in front of her, though he kept his gaze plastered to her face. “If you never wish to see me again, I understand.” 

 

For a moment, Anne was too overwhelmed to say anything. 

 

“Come back home safely,” is all she decided on saying, “Come back to me.” 

 

Charles smiled. 

 

_xv._

 

They grow back together slowly and by the time Charles returns in April, Anne has fully let go of her anger. 

 

And then for two short months they were happy once more and then— 

 

Cromwell met his doom. 

 

He was charged with high treason and found guilty within a fortnight. 

 

Henry had not been pleased with his betrothed and had had her sent back to her country with jewels and a fortune but that had signified Cromwell’s last failure. 

 

Charles and Anne are summoned to court by Henry and they obey but they leave the children behind, only taking his son with them. 

 

_(One of them does not make it back)_

 

xvi. 

 

There are two moments when Thomas Cromwell had a tremendous impact on her life. The first is when he brought her downfall and near-execution. 

 

And ironically, the second is when he redeems her. 

 

Cromwell is dressed all in white when he climbs onto the scaffold, looking as though he had expected to end up there someday. Anne knows that she should not be there— how people disapprove of the fact that she is there but she feels as though she owes it to him, somehow. As though she owes it to herself. They have come full circle. Charles stands next to her with his son Henry standing in front of the both of them. 

 

Anne stares at Cromwell steadily, her mouth pressed into a fine line. She supposed she should feel joy at the sight of her enemy’s downfall but all she feels is this massive _void_ where her heart should be. He had once been her ally in her quest for the crown. He was responsible for the deaths of her brother and four other innocents.  All she feels is sadness as she stares into his wide, haunted eyes. Charles glances at her with concern and moves one of his hands off Henry’s shoulder so that it brushes against her own gloved one.  Anne smiles faintly at the action and whispers, “Thank you.” 

 

He smiles at her, though it does not reach his eyes. Anne turns her attention back to Cromwell, her jaw locking. The crowd is loud and wild at the sight of him, yelling murderous words that make Anne want to close her eyes and hide away. 

 

“All I have wanted to is to serve his grace to the best of my ability,” Cromwell begins, wincing at the shouts of the crowd. “I have been untrue and selfish in my position of power, and for that I ask his majesty and the Lord to forgive my corrupt soul.” The crowd quietens slightly and Cromwell searches through the crowd, looking for someone. Anne feels a chill run up her spine when their eyes meet and his mouth opens slightly, as though something just occurred to him. Something passes between them during those moments, regret mixed with guilt and a sudden desperation for forgiveness. A sudden need to right a wrong. To bring justice. There was only one thing Cromwell could do that would bring her justice and that was to clear Anne’s name and in order to do that he needed to confess. 

 

_No,_ Anne thinks, fear turning her into stone, _don’t do it._

 

Cromwell took a deep breath and spoke: 

 

“I have been convicted and found guilty of treason against the King,” he begins, his voice loud and sure, ‘But in order for justice to truly be served and for my soul to be purged of my crimes there is one more thing I wish to confess.” Charles grip on her hands tightens as the crowd begins to stir. “The rightful Queen is standing in this crowd. Queen Anne was innocent of all charges—I fabricated the evidence and had several of her alleged lovers tortured in order to extract their confession. They were all innocent and unjustly condemned. I hope now that those who conspired against this poor innocent lady will now be brought to justice like myself—“ 

 

Anne gasps, losing some of her balance and Charles wraps an arm around her to steady her. 

 

“These men include the Spanish Ambassador and—“ The list goes on and on until he reaches the last name, the crowd now having grown completely and utterly wild, screaming and yelling frequently and loudly. 

 

And then he condemns another person she cares for to death: 

 

“Charles Brandon.” 

 

_What have you done?_ she thinks, right before her world turns dark, _what have you done?_

 

_xvii._

 

When Anne wakes she finds herself in her chambers, her ladies sitting on chairs surrounding her bed. It takes her a moment to remember what had happened and it makes her feel nauseous all over again. “My lady!” Madge exclaims, hurrying over to her once she catches sight of her trying to lift herself up, “The physician said—“ 

 

“Damn whatever the physician said,” Anne snaps, frustrated with herself for feeling so dizzy, “Where is the Duke of Suffolk? Where is Charles?” 

 

Nan and Madge share a look that makes Anne’s skin crawl and a shiver run up her spine. 

 

“What is it?” she demands, her eyes growing wide, “What is it Madge?”

 

Madge looks down at the floor, fidgeting under her gaze, “The Duke of Suffolk has been imprisoned in the tower of London and has been charged with treason, conspiracy to murder and fabrication of evidence that led to the unlawful imprisonments and deaths of Lord George Boleyn, Sir Henry Norris, William Bereton, Sir Francis Weston and Mark Smeaton.”  Anne exhales loudly, feeling her eyes grow wet and a crushing weight being lifted onto her shoulders. It felt as though she were carrying the weight of the world. 

 

“And what of Elizabeth and my sons? What of the Duke of Suffolk’s son Henry?” 

 

Nan was the one who answered now. 

 

“My lady your children remain at Pembroke and have not been notified as to the recent events—“ 

 

“Good,” Anne murmured absentmindedly, “I wish to tell them myself.” 

 

She waved her hand at Nan, urging her to continue. 

 

“As for the Duke of Suffolk’s son. . . he has been confined to his chambers with one of his tutors by order of the King until his father’s trial has finished. If the Duke of Suffolk is found guilty he will be stripped of his lands, titles and leave his son with— ” 

 

“Nothing and no one,” Anne interrupts, her head throbbing. 

 

_God help me,_ Anne thought, pressing a hand to her temple. She had managed to prop herself up against the pillow as they spoke and now more than ever was desperate to leave her bed and seek answers. “Madge,” she commanded suddenly, breaking the uneasy silence, “Help me up.” Madge took one look at her and did not bother to voice her earlier protests. Anne resisted the urge to grunt at the sudden pounding of her head as Madge wrapped an arm around her waist and helped her out of the bed, with Nan and the rest of her ladies staring at her uneasily. “Make me look presentable for court,” she commanded and then clapped her hands impatiently when they stood there, unsure of what to do. Her ladies worked quickly to rid her of her sweat soaked gown and were fast to dress her into another. Nan began to brush her hair as Madge dabbed at her face with a damp cloth. 

 

Though Anne desperately wished for them to finish—she was bordering on impatient— the moment they did, she suddenly had no desire to move. “Thank you,” she murmured, nodding to her ladies in thanks. Anne turned to face the door of her chamber and exhaled, straightening her back against the weight of the world. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest like a war drum, _doom boom doom boom doom boom,_ over and over until it echoed in her ears. 

 

And then, before she could talk herself out of it, she hurried out of the door, though she was careful to keep her expression composed. “Madge,” she commanded, as she walked briskly down the hallway with her ladies behind her, “I wish for you to find some parchment and write a letter to Master Lewis to inform him of what has happened and to tell him to inform the children that I will be extending my stay in London.” 

 

“Yes my lady,” Madge echoed and Anne heard her hurried footsteps back to her chambers do to as she had asked. Anne had not stopped her pace to look but she could imagine that her ladies face’s were panicked and stressed. “Katherine,” Anne called out, catching the attention of another of her ladies, “I wish for you to go to Henry Brandon’s chambers and tell him a message from me—“ 

 

Anne halted at the sight of the doors that led to where she was sure all of court was gossiping about what had happened. She turned to stare at the girl, her gaze firm and unwavering, leaving no room for error or misinterpretation. “Tell him that he is not alone and that his father loves him very much. Tell him that I will speak for him on the King’s behalf.” Katherine nodded before hurrying away to follow her instructions. Anne turned to face the door once more and exhaled, a noose tightening around her neck. _Calm yourself,_ her mind instructed, _think of Elizabeth and George, Mark, Francis and William— Charles and Henry need you. Charles, your closest friend, needs you._

 

Anne continued on until she reached the door that led to the King’s audience chambers. Guards surrounded the doors, closing it off from the public and allowing no visitors. Anne ignored the whispers that erupted the moment she entered the room; ignored their gazes and stares and glares. She had long since stopped caring what others thought of her. She shot a cold look in their direction, daring them to say anything. Some lowered their gaze in shape— there were few people in the room and most that were there she recognised but did know personally— and others merely pretended that they had never been looking in the first place. Anne had to resist from scowling; _cowards,_ she cursed them viciously. 

 

She stalked up to one of the guards, staring him down. 

 

“Tell the King that I wish to speak with him,” She commands, as though she were a Queen. As though her whole world had not just been torn apart yet again. The guard blinked at her and yet Anne could see some unsureness linger in his eyes. “The King has commanded that no one else other than his advisors be in that room, Lady Marquess. He does not wish to see anyone else—“ 

 

There was a loud shot that came from behind the door. 

 

Still, Anne was not deterred. 

 

“I am sure that his majesty will make an exception,” she replied cooly, making sure to keep her features smooth, “Tell him that it is the Marquess of Pembroke— the mother of five of his children— and that it is an urgent matter.” The man fidgeted and nodded, though he continued to look reluctant. Anne resisted the urge to sigh with relief when he disappeared behind the door and it felt like a lifetime before he eventually reappeared, looking rather pale. 

 

“His majesty has told me that he will speak to you as soon as he can but not at this moment’s time. He has instructed me to escort you back to your chambers and strongly _encourages_ you to recover from your recent fall—“ 

 

Anne shook her head in disbelief but knew what he truly meant. Henry wished for her to be in chambers until he was ready to speak to her—until the evidence that had had her condemned to death was truly false and that everything that Cromwell said had been true. He wished for her to stay away from everyone and keep her mouth shut, so as not to make him seem that much more a fool. _Oh Lord give me strength,_ Anne thought tiredly and with an angry flourish, turned on her heel and stalked away, not waiting for him to finish for fear that she would push past him and barrel through the door to confront Henry. _You must not anger him,_ she advised herself as she walked back to her chambers, _if you wish for him to be merciful, he must be calm._

 

Anne did not leave her chambers for a week before a servant was sent with a message that Henry was ready to see her. She had spent that week worrying, pacing and writing letters to Elizabeth and Mary— to the latter simply to assure her that she was alright (for now anyway).  Anne walked steadily behind the guards, her ladies close behind her as they walked to the King’s audience chamber. She could hear the crowd murmuring from a distance away. Anne made sure to keep her head held high and look forward, not wishing to give them the satisfaction of seeing her be scared. Anne was not scared for herself— at least, she had managed to talk herself out of being scared for her life— she was more terrified for Charles and his son. Her ladies had stayed with her when she had confined herself to her chamber and no one seemed willing to discuss Brandon’s trial with her. Henry would not kill her or have her harmed, of that she was sure for the most part. The only thing that she believed without doubt was that he would not harm their children. 

 

The crowd parted instantly at the sight of her, the room suddenly growing deadly silent. Anne met Henry’s gaze from where she stood, waiting for the servant to announce her. “The Lady Marquess of Pembroke, Anne Boleyn. Mother to—“ 

 

“I know who she is,” Henry interrupted cooly. 

 

Anne resisted the urge to wince. 

 

There was a moment before either of them spoke. Anne’s lips parted— words escaping her as felt her heart begin to race. “Your majesty,” Anne curtsied and surprised the both of them by going onto her knees and keeping her head bowed. _You must be obedient for Charles and Henry. You must. It is their only chance._ No one else would dare speak up for the Duke of Suffolk and his son for fear that they themselves would be executed or imprisoned. 

 

“I am your humble and obedient servant,” she began, keeping her gaze trained to the floor for several moments. “I have loved and cared for you ever since I first laid my eyes upon you. I know— as I am sure the whole of Europe knows— that you are a great King. That you are merciful and just and trusting.” Anne lifted her eyes to meet his now and he seemed so _large_ as he loomed over her, making her chest tightness. Henry’s mouth was pressed into a firm line as he stared at her but Anne could see his eyes soften as he stared at her and the sight gave her courage. “Which is why I am here to humbly ask your majesty to _not_ execute the Duke of Suffolk for his crimes—“ everyone behind her immediately gasped loudly, so loudly that Anne had to stop talking and wait for them to quiet down so that Henry would be able to hear her speak. “And ask of you to allow his son to become the Duke of Suffolk in his stead. I am pleading with you for mercy, your majesty.” There were some outraged cries from behind her, some marvelling at her audacity to ask that of a King and others outraged by her request. 

 

Henry merely tilted his head as he gazed at her, some _emotion_ in his eyes that Anne could not identify. 

 

“Why would you ask of such a thing?” He asked her finally, clutching onto the arm of his throne, “He is an accomplice with the murder and unlawful execution of your brother and other innocents. He is almost responsible for your near death, Lady Marquess. Are you meaning to say that you have forgiven him for his betrayal?” 

 

“Yes,” Anne replied steadily, her hands resting on her knees. 

 

“So much blood has been spent your majesty,” Anne said, a hint of desperation in her voice, “Innocent blood. Blood of people that I loved and cared for. Yes he may be partially responsible your majesty,  but that does not mean that his son— his innocent son, so much like how my brother was innocent— deserves to pay for his father’s crimes.” 

 

“Have you truly forgiven him?” Henry questioned, his voice growing harder now. 

 

“Yes,” Anne admitted, their eyes meeting— it sends a jolt down her spine. 

 

Anne waited in agony for Henry to respond, though she was careful to try and hide it. Her heart pleaded with his, desperate for him to understand—to agree. To show the mercy that she knew he was capable of. _I do still love him,_ Anne realised in that moment, as they gazed into each other eyes, _not as I used to before, of course, but I. . . I can not explain it. I hate him as I love him. I fear him as I care for him. I long for him as I dread for him. He was my downfall. He is Charles’s and Cromwell’s and Wolsey’s and More’s downfall; amongst many others. But God it was the sweetest one._

 

“Henry Brandon will be allowed to retain his lands and his title and will be allowed to returned to his estates, where he is to remain until told otherwise.” Anne felt the burden on her shoulders lessen slightly but she still sensed the _but_ coming. “However, Charles Brandon has confessed to treason. He has admitted that he lied to his King and to God and that he is responsible for the death of  innocents. He will be sentenced to die a fortnight from now.” He stood from his throne and looked up from her, addressing the whole room. “However, Lady Anne’s pleas have touched me greatly and I shall grant him the mercy of a quick, painless death by decapitation, instead of drawing and quartering, a death befitting that of a traitor.” 

 

He walks down and extends his arm to her. Anne takes it reluctantly, her mouth dry. Anne met his gaze for a brief moment before quickly looking down before she could see that her eyes had begun to water slightly. “Thank you, your majesty,” Anne told him, her voice soft and gentle. “Thank you.” 

 

Anne rose to her full height and though she knew she had _won_ in some sense of the word, her heart sunk in her chest at the thought that she could not save Charles. Henry grasped onto her elbow with one of his hands and murmured quietly, “You may go visit him if you wish.” Anne nearly gaped at him with surprise; she was stunned at his generosity, at his kindness and lack of anger. _He feels guilty,_ Anne realised, _he knows the truth. He knows that I was—am— innocent._

 

Anne’s breath caught in her throat and she had the sudden urge to topple over, her bones feeling weak and fragile all of a sudden. She cast him a small smile, and then a small wounded sound—so quiet she almost did not hear it— escaped her throat. “Majesty,” she murmured curtsying and then hurried out of the room when he dismissed her with a slight nod of his head. 

 

_xviii._

 

_Tower of London, three days before the Duke of Suffolk’s execution._

 

Charles looks as though he has aged a hundred years since she last saw him. His eyes, once light blue and vibrant are now dull and lifeless, with large black circles under them. His face is unnaturally pale and covered with grime, and it looks oddly thin, having lost it’s healthy glow. 

 

He rises at once when he sees that it’s her and Anne rushes over to him, to steady him so that he does not fall over. 

 

“Anne,” he whispers, grasping onto her hands. 

 

“We haven’t much time,” Anne said hurriedly, her eyes wide and her voice hushed. “I convinced the King to allow Henry to continue on as the Duke of Suffolk. He will leave him alone, Charles. He is not to be punished for your—“ She stops herself from continuing, her throat suddenly raw with emotion, leaving her incapable of words. Her eyes shine with tears as she stares into his eyes and just as a sob leaves her lips he hugs her close, allowing her to bury her face into his shoulder. “I do not wish for you to die,” she whispers, a tear slipping down her cheek. Her heart aches at the thought of her longtime time companion and lover being sentenced to the scaffold for a crime she had long since forgiven him for. He is the closest thing her children have to a father. She loves his son as though he were one of her own. 

 

“This is my punishment for a choice I made that resulted in the deaths of several innocents.” His voice is soft, soothing, and his breath gently caresses the top of her head. Anne shakes her head as she wraps her arms around his waist. “I forgave you a long time ago,” she confesses truthfully, “You did not wish for them to die. That had not been what you had wanted.” She can feel his lips curl against the crown of her head. “But if it had not been me that had mentioned those foul rumours, they would still be alive. Elizabeth would be princess and your sons would be in the succession and you would still be Queen.” 

 

Anne pulls away from him, though she still holds onto his hands. 

 

“Thank you,” he tells her, kissing her hands tenderly. 

 

Anne smiles at him, before gently retracting her hands from his hold and swipes at her eyes. 

 

“It is I who should be thanking you,” she tells him. He snorts in derision but his eyes soften as they probe into her own. “Don’t watch,” he says suddenly. Anne frowns at him, confused. “Do not come to watch me die. Please, I beg of you, do not come.” Anne wants to protest and scream at him but she can not make herself do so. And so, silently, she nods. 

 

She leaves moments later, a lifetime of words she wished she had the time to say on the tip of her lips. 

 

(In the end, she breaks her promise. She creeps into the crowd, wearing a large, black hood that casts a shadow on her face and hides it from view. It is a cold and grey day, with no sign of the sun. The sky is a dark grey canvas, and the clouds are so heavy it appears as though they would brush against the tips of her fingertips  if she were to raise her hand. The crowd is loud and hateful but she tries not to be affected by their words. 

 

Charles is escorted onto the scaffold by a group of guards and he does not seem afraid. He looks peaceful, resigned to his fate. It makes her want to weep. The crowds scathing words do not seem to bother him and there is a moment when he simply stands there, searching the crowd for someone. Their eyes meet and he does not seem surprised to see her there. He smiles at her—directly at her, so she knows that it is for her— and then looks up at the sky. 

 

Anne holds her breath when the executioner raises the axe and the breath she lets out after it comes crashing down sounds an awful lot like a sob. 

 

And then it is later that night, after she returned to the castle when she realised that she may have been in love with him after all) 

 

— 

 

Anne is crowned Queen once more in the year 1539, three years after she had first been stripped of the title and a month after the death of the Duke of Suffolk. 

 

Henry surprises both her and the entire country when he kneels in front of her once she had been re-crowned, as though he were paying homage to her. 

 

Anne had risen from the ashes and enacted revenge on those who had tried to bring her downfall. 

 

_Epilogue_

 

Anne watches her children play in the gardens from afar, watching them with a faint smile on her face. The sun is shining brightly, a yellow hole amidst a sea of blue. There is a slight, pleasant breeze as she watches them run across the green hedges that are intertwined with roses and other various flowers. The love she holds for them burns brightly in her chest as she listens to their giggles. Though the sound does nothing to lift the weight of the crown on her head. A crown had never once been so heavy in the past for her; after she had first become Queen, it had felt as though a crown were meant to be there all along. Now, it feels heavy and uneven, something that she desperately wishes to discard every moment it lays on the top of her head. There is a small glimmer of satisfaction however, that she will not deny. She has begun to grow more and more used to it. 

 

She gazes at her children once more and a deep sadness and uncertainty forms within her, making her teeth clench. She presses a hand against her neck, leaning against a pillar. She does not notice Henry slide up next to her until she can see him from the sides of her vision. 

 

“Henry,” she murmurs, slightly startled, though her gaze still lingers on their children. 

 

He smiles at her softly, though it does not reach his eyes. He stares at her for a moment—she does not drag her gaze away from her children— and then follows her gaze, a small smile forming as he watches her— _their_ children. “What are we doing Henry?” she asks quietly, tilting her head ever-so-slightly, “We are no longer the people we once were.” 

 

There is a moment before he replies. 

 

“No,” he agrees, his voice soft, “We are not.” 

 

“What remains?” she questions seriously, shooting him a glance. 

 

He turns to look at her now, taking a step closer to her so that their shoulders now brush against each other. 

 

“What remains is the love we have for our children. What remains is the future, Anne. What remains is the possibility that we may fall in love with each other again, if only given time.” He reaches for her hand hesitantly and when she does not pull away or tense at his touch he grasps onto it fully, though his grip is loose. 

 

A small smiles plays on her lips as she stares at him, a gleam in her eyes. 

 

“I suppose that will be enough.” 

 

Henry laughs; loud and biting. 

 

“As you say, my queen,” he tells her, shaking his head with amusement, “As you say.” 

 

— 

 

 

Anne Boleyn is a historical figure that has fascinated historians for centuries. Her rise to power, her fall from power and then her eventual rise once more has proven to be one of the most interesting stories that has ever come to pass in history. At first fiercely hated by the English people during her first reign (1533-1536) , by the beginning of her second reign as Queen Consort of England (1539-1547) she was one of the most beloved Queens to ever come to pass. Her passion for charity along with her intelligence and wit made her one of the most influential consorts that has ever existed. Mother to the Queen of France, the King of England, King Consort of Scotland, Duke of Suffolk, and then Duke of Pembroke  (who also happened to be the husband of Anne of Cleves brother’s daughter, his heir) her children left a mark on the world that continues to be felt today. 

 

Anne’s relationship with Henry following their second marriage has continued to puzzle historians for years. On the one hand, how could Anne ever love the man who had had her brother killed and had almost condemned her to death? But on the other hand, Henry showed on numerous occasions over the years his true remorse over his actions and the intense love he held for his wife. He also demonstrated a great trust in her, leaving her to rule as regent when he left for war and naming her the chief executive of his will when he died. Anne’s feeling towards her husband are still unclear but according to most witnesses their marriage appeared to be one of true companionship and love the second time around, though it reportedly took a year of them being remarried for them to begin sharing a chamber. They never had more children. Henry never took a mistress— at least an official one, though there were rumours that he courted one woman, there has been no historical evidence as to the fact. 

 

Anne continued to hold Charles Brandon in high regard and made sure that his son was well cared for. When Henry Brandon became ill in 1551, 4 years after the death of her husband, Anne was there during his final hours when he named one of her younger sons his heir. Elizabeth continued to hold the man who had been her father for a few years during her childhood in high regard as well, and when she gave birth to her first child, a boy, the Dauphin of France, she called him Charles. 

 

Anne Boleyn died in the year 1561. Loved and well reputed, she was thoroughly mourned by the people of England and her children. Her son King George, instead of having her buried with his father, had her body buried with her brother in the new, elaborate tomb that Anne had had her brother’s corpse moved to in 1543. There they both lie, joined in the afterlife. 

 

_Here lies Lord George Boleyn, unjustly condemned, whose kindness lights up the sky each night, joined by his sister Queen Anne Boleyn, the most happy. Here they both rest, forever in peace, forever in heaven, a symbol of hope and justice. May they be remembered for the rest of times._

 

(They were)

 


End file.
